


Divergence

by cheddarbiscuit



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon), Tangled (2010)
Genre: And many miles, F/M, Minor Drug and Alcohol Use, Not for many chapters, Swearing, but that will happen, moonstone!eugene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:09:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23772091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheddarbiscuit/pseuds/cheddarbiscuit
Summary: There goes our dashing hero. He's running everywhere. Eugene, stop. You can't see. You might hurt yourself on those very sharp rocks.
Relationships: Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider/Rapunzel
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	1. At The End of That Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the original chapter one. I scrapped it because I thought "Why would I start a fic about Eugene from the PoV of the guy that hates him the most!?"
> 
> But I took another look at it vs. the main fic, and I realized... "Why not!?"
> 
> It really informed a lot of what I wrote later and posted, ("Oh, woe is me, wanted for treason!") and also gives Cassandra reasons for disliking Eugene (He stole her dad and her dream!) and gives the Captain some human qualities, some internal conflict, (I want to find the Princess, but I don't because that means I'll find Cassandra's mother… AND that Rider was right.)
> 
> And also, I think the first part is some good work.

When I ordered Rider thrown into a cell, I expected that to be the end of it.

I expected, finally, to put the fiasco that had consumed the past two days behind me. Seven years, I had worked the day of the lantern festival, seven years and _nothing_ had happened. But just this one time, the _only time_ I had requested leave to spend the festival with my daughter, _Rider_ had to steal the crown! It was a matter of the nation's security and reputation. I could not kick up my heels and let the man disgrace us all during the princess's memorial. There were dignified guests watching, judging, sniffing for weaknesses. Alliances could be unmade and invasions could be plotted based on the proficiency and conduct of the military. I had no choice but to let Rider lead me on a wild goose chase through the countryside while Cassandra waited. We marched like perfect soldiers to his drum.

But he had been delivered to us, in the end, by some good samaritain that had not even wanted the reward. He had been promptly thrown into a cell. Fifteen minutes later a routine patrol had collected his accomplices. They had been thrown in a different cell.

I would have thrown them in the _same_ cell, but as Captain, I was not allowed to directly, or indirectly, abuse prisoners.

Still, with Rider and the Stabbingtons locked away and the crown returned, I had expected, at least, to have a meal in peace. I expect that to be the end of it.

I expected too much.

I should have taken those other seven years. Cassandra was twenty one now. She had moved out of my apartments in the barracks and lived in a private room on the opposite side of the castle. She and I still lived under the same roof, but she felt so distant. I had squandered our years for my reputation—what had I gained? There was no greater prestige for me, I had reached the top. No grown woman wanted to spend these festivals with her father—she wanted to spend it with a man her own age. I was a fool to think it would have been anything other than tense.

I found Cassandra in my private room, staring at her toy sword and frowning.

"Cassandra?"

And, like magic, her tears vanished. They did not roll down her cheeks—she just willed them away. She had always been able to do that, even when she was young. I would catch her, many times, on the verge of tears that never came, I would call her name, she would look at me, and they were gone. Her mother must have been a horrible woman, that one so little would learn how _not_ to cry.

"You are in uniform."

"Yes. It seemed..." she brushed at her blue sleeve to avoid looking into my eyes. Her cuff was spotless. She cleared her throat. Whatever she started to say, she decided to leave it unsaid, "I was needed."

I did not think that was entirely true, "I am sorry it happened, Cassandra."

She smiled at me, but she did not _look_ at me, "It's not your fault, dad."

I took my helmet off. Cool air rushed to my scalp and I sighed. I felt better. My feet were aching. How long had I been walking? Hours and miles; days, with only a three-hour rest in the night we had walked back from the reservoir.

"Dad!" Cassandra gasped, "Your head!"

My hair was not so long now. I was getting older, and it was starting to thin, and long hair stuffed under a helmet... I raised a gloved hand to my head and my white gloves were dusted with dry, brown blood. I had hardly noticed, "Rider hit me with a frying pan."

A mix of emotions flickered in her steel eyes, but she settled on steadfast contempt as she picked up my helmet and looked at the dent, "That son of a bitch."

Her language was unbecoming of a lady-in-waiting, but Queen Arianna and Mrs. Crowley were not around to hear her. I let it slide. Rider had stolen a crown from the King, and that theft could be measured in gold and gemstones, perhaps he had stolen dignity from him, too, but that was harder to measure. I did not care about the value of the crown, and I only cared about the king's good image because the soldiers under a _respected_ king did not have to fight many wars. But Rider had stolen two days from Cassandra, and they were priceless, "He's in a cell now."

She looked back at me, and her eyes said, _you should not have told me_ , but her mouth said, "Well, good. I'm glad. The crown?"

"Has been returned."

"Think his majesty will hang him or treason?" She was entirely too fascinated with the men in the cells below, "And the Stabbingtons? Did you catch them?"

"The order was drafted and signed. The Stabbingtons are locked away, Cassandra. Securely. They will be… Taken care of separately."

"I'm sorry, sir." She knew I wanted her to stop. She could read so much—sometimes, perhaps, too much—from my tone. She sensed anger that was not there, resentment I never felt, judgement I was not passing. Ghosts of that woman, I told myself, nothing more, "If there's a break out, I need to be prepared."

She was right—She should not think of it, but she was right. She had nothing to fear. She was still Little One to me, though I had seen her knock men flat on their backs. Not men as slippery as Rider or as large as the Stabbingtons, but they did not know she existed. They would not strike her for their hatred of me. It was… Not a silly fear, but an unfounded one. If there was an escape, the men in the cells would _not,_ despite how sure Ethel and Faith were, go straight to the servant's quarters to see how much carnage they could cause on their way out. They would just go.

Cassandra and I had debated this many times; it was never resolved.

There was a knock on the door, "Captain Cromwedge, Sir?"

Yes, I expected too much, "Yes?"

"Ah…" Pete did not want to be the one to say it. He cleared his throat. I saw the shadow of his feet shift as he straightened his back, "Flynn Rider is demanding to speak with you."

The cheek! The gaul! "Send him a priest!"

"We—we tried, sir." Pete insisted, "He wants _you_. Specifically."

I was not allowed to abuse prisoners. I was _not_ allowed to abuse prisoners. I was not…!

But, oh, I wanted to thrash the man! He stole days from me, but it was my job to have my days stolen! The two he had stolen from Cassandra were a greater insult than the hundreds he had taken from _me._ Each day she grew away from me was a day she grew closer to leaving to achieve her dreams, and I could not have that. I remembered it as clear as the day she had been abandoned by the old woman that took the Princess, and she had sat on my shoulders, half-asleep, as the lanterns filled the sky. I carried her back to our rooms in the castle and as I set her down in her bed, she said almost in a dream, "Let's go find the princess tomorrow, Papa."

It had chilled me to the bone, and I saw _her_ , sword in hand. I heard the bridge splash into the creek while our horses scattered. I feared for Cassandra. She had forgotten that woman, and I never wanted her to remember, but she smiled so sweetly through her closed eyes, I stifled that fear and shushed her, "It's too dangerous, Little One."

As the years passed, and she became determined to be a perfect copy of _me,_ it became her favorite game of pretend, as she climbed the furniture, wearing my helmet and playing with a toy sword. The flight of fancy became a dream, to join the guard and find the Lost Princess, then it became a goal, to find the Lost Princess to prove herself to me so she could _join_ the guard. Each time, the fear had clawed at me. Each time, I had shushed her, "It is too dangerous, Little One."

I was her father—I wished to see her achieve her dreams. I understood the King's anguish when I looked at her, and I understood that he would want his daughter back. I had seen many ghosts of the woman that had abandoned her, and I knew that if the Princess was in her care, she was suffering so greatly in ways she did not understand. The twisted lessons she had taught Cassandra, that one must _serve_ , one must be _useful_ , one must provide _value_ , in order to earn _love_ , were burned into mind, as intertwined as her curls; I could not pick them apart.

Then, one day, when she was fourteen and thought she could take on the world with only her training foil, I caught her stuffing food into a gunny sack when she was supposed to be working in the laundry. She had realized, that day, "It is too dangerous, little one," had only been my way of saying, "I will not allow it, Cassandra."

I was her father. It was my duty to protect her from what she would find at the end of that road.

And so she obeyed. She never said a word of it again, and she stayed in the laundry, then she scullery, then she served the guests, the King himself. Her dry wit made her Queen Arianna's favorite companion. As she had vowed, she had excelled in her chosen path, she had done all she could to make me proud, but for my guilt, I could feel only shame.

Cassandra's voice interrupted me. She was looking at my dented helmet with resignation, not sadness, not anger. "Hey, Dad, don't worry. The guy's been a thorn in your side for years. You're probably…" then she grimaced, like the thought turned her stomach. She was joking to hide her true feelings, "The closest thing he's got to a father."

"Rider can wait."

"He… He says he can't."

"Rider _will_ wait!"

And so Rider waited.

I went down to the cells with a clearer head and a full belly. I had dealt with Rider in the cells before. He had raised a racket you could hear from the door, spouting a million excuses, that no one saw him (they had) that it was a set up (it never was) that it was a mistake (it was not.) He could keep it up for hours, well into the night, as if he could irritate the guards into freeing him (he could.)

But this time, Rider was quiet. He was making no demands, no denials, not threats. All I could hear from his cell was the shuffling of boots. I frowned. He was pacing. I told myself that he was only trying a different strategy. He had not been in my jail for a good nine years, but he had been in cells abroad, he must have learned the endless, irritating chatter worked much better for a skinny whelp than it did a grown man. He was twenty-four now, the boy was gone, and I could see none of him in the man that paced endlessly, blind to me. He could have reformed, learned a trade and had a life, I would have welcomed him into the ranks, if he had just done as I had asked and served his time.

But in the end; he would no longer be my concern, "What is it, Rider?"

He flinched. He crossed the cell, clinging to the bars, "I can't be here. Please. Let me out."

I said nothing. I refused to entertain him.

He was talking to a brick wall and he knew it, he took a breath and tried anyway. He started pacing again, speaking with his hands, "If you go into the woods… If you trace the path I followed… No, no I fell from a cliff. Start at the Snuggly Duckling and go away from Old Corona. You'll leave the road maybe fifty yards past the bend, on the right hand side, you'll find a gorge. Look for a boulder near vines. It only looks solid. The vines hide a way through. There will be a tower. I climbed it. I hid inside it—but I was not alone. There was a girl—the girl you saw with me at the dam. Her name is Rapunzel."

"Is she an accomplice?"

"No!" He looked offended. I did not buy it, "She is _not!_ She'd been trapped in that tower for eighteen years! She asked for my help escaping! All she wanted to do was see the lanterns but now she's been taken by the Stabbington Brothers! Please…!"

I was not allowed to strike him once he was behind bars, for his own protection, but I _was_ allowed to scoff. There had been no sign of a girl when the brothers had been picked up. They had said nothing of the girl. I would keep that to myself, if only for a while. He blinked. He shook his head and muttered in shock, "They wanted… I… She…"

Then he stared off into space like he realized something that would drive him mad if he told no one, but also that no one would believe him, least of all me. He was a fantastic actor. He could have had a career.

But there _was_ a girl—and that did nag at me. She had not seemed like she wanted to be separated from him at the dam; if she was a prisoner, she had not been _his_. There was no sign of her now; not with Rider, not with the brothers. Spirited as she had seemed, jumping off ledges and swinging from her hair, she did not _look_ capable of escaping the Stabbington Brothers—the darkness could have hidden her body; a stone, a little rope, and the dark water, would have hidden it better. _Distance_ would have hidden her better still.

"I need five days, please." he looked at me and how _soulful_ his eyes looked, "I know where they'd take her—to Vardaros, to the Baron. I know you don't trust me, but _please._ Send men with me to drag me back. Just let me help Rapunzel, and I… I will go quietly."

What made him think I would fall for a ploy to leave the castle unguarded? I clenched my jaw. How big was this web of lies? How many partners did he have in this crime? Had the three allowed themselves to be captured so that they could start an invasion from the _inside?_ I would ensure tighter security tonight, even if I had to take a shift myself. If I was being paranoid, so be it. I did not get this position by being _relaxed._

"I know you don't trust me. I know you won't believe me but…" he took a bracing breath and pressed his forehead against the cold metal bars, gathering himself, preparing to look me in the eye again, "Captain, she had magic hair. It healed a cut on my hand, no scar—nothing, like it never happened."

Then he showed me his hand, unblemished, like it would convince me. He realized how stupid that was and he closed his hand around the bar again, looking at the floor to his left bitterly. I said nothing—his con became clear. I had heard the lie many times; every child knew the story of the miracle flower that saved the Queen, even Cassandra, though it was her least favorite. For years, blonde girls had been carted in front of the King and Queen, some even claiming to have healing powers (though none had attributed it to their _hair,_ so I would give him credit for originality) Frederic and Arianna had dismissed them all before they had the chance to _prove_ anything.

It seemed likely, to me at least, that they had seen and dismissed their real daughter long ago.

I waited for him to demand to see the King and Queen. I waited for him to declare he had found the Lost Princess, so he deserved clemency. He did not. He wanted to make it _my_ idea to wake them, he wanted me to put him forward, he wanted me to play myself.

I would not be played, "You're staying here, Rider."

"But you saw her yourself!"

I had. I could not deny that. I had seen the girl, and the long hair had been convincing. If she had been wearing a wig, what had they used? I knew of nothing that could have looked so real; but real or not, it would have weighed her down in the water. Her death meant their plan had gone awry, and now she was a phantom Rider was going to use to lure as many men away from the castle as he could, on yet another snipe hunt. "The last time I, personally, laid eyes on this girl, was the dam."

He shook his head, "Wait, no!"

"From where I am standing, it looks like you left the girl to drown."

"No—" his voice was so desperately quiet, "No! There are witnesses that saw me with her. In town. We were there all day."

"Can you name them?"

Again, it was soft, "No, but..."

I was not interested in maintaining this charade, "A priest will come. Confess your sins."

Rider's eyes grew wide. His face paled, "W-what?"

Apparently, no one had told him; "You have trespassed on Castle grounds with the aim to do harm. That is an act of treason. The penalty is death. You won't be charged with the girl's death, Rider—You'll still hang for it."

The man did not cry. He clenched his teeth. He squeezed his eyes shut like he was fighting it, desperately. The ragged sound that came from his throat reminded me of Cassandra's cry as I carried her away from her cottage and to the castle in defeat. Just lower.

We had combed that forest—there was no hidden tower there. The woman had taken the child far beyond our reach. She was not in the woods. There was no tower. I was sure of that. I had searched her abandoned home for a map, a diary, some clue to her location… I found nothing. I had asked Cassandra, as gently as I could. Cassandra knew nothing.

I told myself I would search in the morning. I knew I would find nothing, but I also knew I would feel terrible if I found the tower, and the girl, and the first thing she did was ask about the misunderstood young man that had helped her escape, if only for a little while. Rider would have a private audience with the King and Queen in the morning, his own little stage, and their undivided attention. If he was so inclined, he could tell them his tale _then_ , but not tonight. Frederic and Arianna had sent their lantern skyward for the benefit of the people, and then they retired for the evening. The lanterns were somber, in their eyes, a memorial service, not a beacon. The people danced and laughed late into the night in hope of her return, but to Frederic and Arianna, the night was agony.

I would not wake them just so that Flynn Rider could manipulate their grief.

"Rider ain't lying," a voice interrupted me, "Not this time."

I stopped and looked at the cell. It was one the Stabbingtons—Jacob, the one that could speak. I would be more inclined to believe his brother.

"She was fine after the dam broke, Wilhelm and I both saw her. She _did_ have magic hair—and he's right, we _did_ plan to sell her to the Baron. We only knew about her because we met a woman in the woods who claimed to be her mother, but she makes a man _glad_ to be an orphan. She told us to send him to you, then she knocked us out, and left us on the shore for you to find."

My stomach twisted, most because my memories haunted me, and only slightly because it meant having to admit Rider was right, "An old woman?"

"No. Dark haired. Didn't look a thing like the girl."

Wilhelm gave the sole of his boot a little kick and made a motion I did not understand.

"Is that so?"

"What?"

Jacob did not answer me. He just chuckled and folded his arms behind his head, "You don't say? That's fascinating."

" _What?"_

But Jacob knew very well he would hang for treason, too. Not alongside Rider, and not with his brother. He would die alone. One man, one rope. Frederic and Arianna agreed it was better that way, why give a man an audience? To die was bad enough, to die with people leering at you, making a mockery of your mortality, beside friends and brothers…? It was not how I would choose to go. Even those unfit for society deserved for their last words to be heard, free of judgement, and a moment of silence for their passing. Even scum deserved a little dignity.

But answering _me_ would not change Jacob's fate, and he knew that well. He looked me dead in the eye, smirked, and looked away. He would take his brother's observation to the gallows with him.

I was wasting time. I continued my march out of the cells, back to Cassandra. Perhaps there was truth to Rider's tale—perhaps he had not _realized_ he had stumbled upon the Lost Princess. Perhaps he could not see the forest for the trees. Perhaps he had, and he said nothing for fear I would have killed him on the spot. What other golden-haired girl could it be, but the Princess? Even I had thought the resemblance was striking when I had seen her.

But it was too convenient; Flynn Rider stealing the crown, only to come back _reformed by the one it was made for?_ Fanciful—sickeningly so. Corona had enemies; regardless of what the people liked to believe. Saporia was never far, and they never stopped scheming. The Separatists were not above promising a man like Rider or the Stabbingtons a pardon if they helped put some pretender on the throne to further their cause—and any girl Rider tried to pass off as the Lost Princess would be a girl I dismissed as a pretender. It was my duty.

It was disheartening to know that in the morning I would report for duty and stand watch while the floor gave way under his boots. He was only a few years older than Cassandra—and Cassandra was far too young to die. And it was disheartening to know, perhaps, the Princess was in a tower in the woods, and she had been for years, but I would redouble my efforts. The brothers were right; the little remnants I saw of Cassandra's mother _did_ make me glad to be an orphan.

But magic hair or Saporean Separatists… I knew who I would find at the end of that road.

* * *


	2. The Fall

Flynn Rider is anything but predictable.

A man does not get his visage plastered all over the kingdom by being ordinary and obliging, or shy, or retiring, or _safe_. Not even _coy_ was going to cut it. No, tighten your grip. Grit your teeth. Dig in your heels, I told myself as Maximus hit the cobblestone. I felt the impact in every nerve, even though I was standing in the saddle. I expected the horse to stagger, scream, and topple over. A racing horse bred for speed would have shattered his ankles after a hit like that. A human would have shattered their ankles.

I looked back. People were pointing, telling themselves Flynn Rider was at it again, damn the man, but no one was hurt… Not yet. I looked up to the castle walls. This side was plain, simple and formidable—built thick to hide the jailhouse and the gallows. King Fredric liked private executions, to him even a murderer deserved a death free of mockery. Same as a traitor, same as a thief… But what about the guys that busted the treacherous thief free? Helped him assault the guards and steal the Captain's prized horse?

I would get them out. It was barely eight in the morning. I had spent the night pacing in agony, my mind going over every possibility, chewing on my nails and tearing at my hair, trying to make the few puzzle pieces I had match up. Over-thinking every choice, rationalizing every mistake… I would not agonize anymore. I would get them out. _Rapunzel and I_ would get them out.

"Okay, Max. Let's see how fast you can run."

If there were people in the way, they were a blur. I could not hear them; Max' hooves were deafening on the stones. The blood was pounding in my ears. The wind was howling, whipping through my hair, burning my eyes. Every breath was overwhelming. I was drowning on dry land. Too much—not enough—too much!

It was not Flynn Rider struggling to breathe now. When we crossed the bridge, when Max dove in the green of the wood, Eugene took his first breath in years, through gritted teeth, with burning eyes. What a welcome back to the world. Flynn Rider was a parasite. A weed. A bramble that had choked Eugene out, smothered him some time in his sleep, in a prison cell or in the woods somewhere. I had no idea when, but I had given that old face up for dead a long time ago. It was—it had been—the weeds and thorns of Rider holding me up. Now the branches knocked him loose and Maximus' gallop shook him away.

I was chasing a new dream; to find Rapunzel, and to ride with her as far as I could. I would leave her mother, the tower, my own dreams in the dust, and cover every inch of the world by her side. Maybe, at the end of our days, we would find an island in the sun, far away from anyone, but that would not be for a long time. Why would I want to take her to some spit of land in the middle of the sea, when she had seen so little?

I did not have time to dream too far ahead. I still had to find my way back to the tower. I re-traced the path I had taken— _not to the dead end!_ —the day I had stolen the crown— _not off the cliff!_ —I should not have gloated. I should not have botched the job. It would have been perfect if I had not, we would have gotten away with it. The Stabbingtons would not have been out for my head, the guards would not have been chasing me…

And Rapunzel would always be stuck in her tower.

No—I told myself again, same as I had before, same as I would again. I had to meet her, I refused to think of a world where I was not hers.

Why did I have to choose to make amends at _that particular_ moment? Why had I felt like they needed to forgive me? Why had I even assumed they would have? How could I have been so stupid? I should have ignored them. I should have kissed her. I should have thrown the crown into the water and started rowing back to the docks. They had seen Rapunzel, magic hair or not, and I was stupid to think she would be safe only fourteen yards away from them. I should not have frozen stiff the moment they mentioned her—I should have _run_. I should never have taken her onto the water. I should have cut her hair while she slept by the campfire—if I had known!

If I had asked, charmed the answers out of her, I would have known about her mother, about what she was doing, about how she was _using_ her... It never would have come to this. I never would have allowed it to come to this.

I was agonizing again— _Eugene_ was agonizing. Flynn never worried about things like that. Flynn walked away from problems and Eugene hid from them. Neither one of them cleaned up their own messes. It was time I started, I thought to myself, as Maximus dove into the vines that hid the tower from the world. I jumped out of the saddle. Get Rapunzel, get the guys...

I took a breath to call her name.

_Don't be stupid._

I froze. It was a little thought, no more than a thorn would catch a sleeve, a rock in a shoe, but it was jarring enough to twist my gut, like the sudden, unsettling squeak of wood under my toes in the dead of night. It was a warning from Flynn. Reform? Fine. Do not throw what you have learned out the window. Think—for her sake.

And he was right.

The Stabbingtons had not just _gotten themselves_ arrested on a whim. They had just discovered a bigger money-maker they could even dream of, why would they? They had been _caught,_ and they would be headed for the noose, same as me. Treason was taken very seriously, too seriously. Stealing a crown was just the same as killing the king. Rapunzel's mother—if she could even call her that!—had told them about her, dangled her infront of them like a carrot on a stick, knowing they would double-cross her, and feeling no shame double-crossing them. She was trouble. I did not know how _much_ trouble, not yet. If I sat down and thought about it from the beginning, maybe I could. Most of the pieces were there, scattered around, but I did not have time to put them together. A minute—even a few seconds—can make or break a heist. They can be the difference between riches and death.

And so could bad choices. Why foolishly announce myself? Why expect to be welcomed in when I knew who was there, and I did not know what I was going to do? Even if she thought I was dead, the old woman would not be so foolish as to leave Rapunzel alone, not now, not ever again. Flynn Rider would wait for the cover of darkness, steal the girl, and run… He would do other things, too, but _mostly_ ; he would run.

But Eugene…

Eugene could not stand the idea that Rapunzel thought he had abandoned her.

Neither did Flynn.

But my head was not worth ten thousand gold pieces because I was _reckless._ I was worth ten thousand gold pieces because I knew how to enter the most secure castles. I could figure out how to enter one tower. Flynn Rider used windows, he used gutters, he used old trapdoors that were meant for escape in the event of an invasion that were forgotten about after generations of renovations and were now conveniently above where the lost princess' crown was displayed on her birthday. A thief climbing in a window was expected, usual, and predictable—Flynn Rider was not predictable.

But what else was there?

I thought I heard a scream. I looked up, and I almost called her name. Maximus huffed beside me, impatient, as if to ask me if _he_ was supposed to climb the tower. I shook my head. I did not see anyone looking out the window. I heard the noise again—it was not human. It was just a raven perched on a stone. It called, then it jumped to the next. It called. It jumped. It flew away. There was a doorway hidden on the opposite side of the tower. It had been sealed with stones and hidden with flowering vines. Of course. Rapunzel's hair had not always been so long, and her mother had needed a temporary solution. She must have broken back in when she returned—how was she going to get back inside if Rapunzel was outside, too?

I stuck my head inside and looked up, stone stairs spiraled up, packed so tightly at the top I could hardly see the open trapdoor at the end. I could hear voices, muffled, a little commotion, then silence. The woman thought I was dead, I smirked as I started up the stairs, she had sent me to the gallows. Who expected a dead thief to walk in through the front door? Imagine the look on her face!

Max tried to force his way in behind me, but he stopped before he got himself stuck in the doorway. I looked back to him, waved him away with a smile and a finger to my lips. He counted on the ground and nickered, a little impatient, a little worried. He stopped when I held up my hand to silence him, but he did not look soothed. He knew, just as well as I did, that this was a risky choice. But it was the only _real_ choice I had.

I could wait until night came, the safest choice of all. There was only one way in, one way out of the valley. The woman would not be able to leave without my knowing. If she left with Rapunzel, I could stop her, or I could follow. If she left without her, I could slip in and steal her back… But where would that leave the guys? Hung by noon. I could not wait—What if she never left again at all?

I could not kill her. Not in front of Rapunzel. I had a knife, sure. It was stuffed in my boot, so well hidden the guards did not find it when they searched me. It was going to stay there. It was for intimidation, to send anyone looking for a fight on their way. It had never ended a life, that was not something I was capable of. Eugene would never do that, and Flynn had piles of excuses and logic, it was not me, it was the noose, the guards, the fire, it was the fall. It was not me. I had done nothing but left them in the dust, whatever happened to them after that was not my fault. My hands were clean.

I could try to convince the old woman to let Rapunzel go, and I could fail. I could offer to let her be a third wheel on our endless second date. She would not agree—neither would Rapunzel, neither would I. Would I stay here and try to trick her into thinking I was willing to be another jailer until her back was turned? She would never fall for it. Would Rapunzel and I be trapped here, a pair of lovebirds in a cage? I shuddered at the implications—Flynn, for just a moment, wanted to reconsider. I could betray her and run with Blondie any time I liked. Eugene was willing to give it a try, so long as everyone else was happy, but I refused to entertain the idea. I was smarter than either one of them. The woman was more likely to kill me in my sleep than let me live.

It was quiet up there, and I wondered if Rapunzel even had to be alive for the magic to work. What if the woman had cut off her head and planned to leave her body in the tower to rot? I stopped on the stairs. I was closer to the trap door than I was to the ground. I stooped down to draw the knife. Mostly to assure myself I had not lost it. If Rapunzel was dead? Her mother was next.

"Eugene!" it was not a demand for help. It was not a plea for rescue. It was mourning, "EUGENE!"

"For the last time, Rapunzel, he's _dead!"_

" _Eugene!"_

I rushed for the ladder as Rapunzel's voice was lost in a bloody, garbled shriek, and I was up in the blink of an eye. I saw Rapunzel first, her green eyes huge. Blood was dripping down her chin, soaking into a rag around her neck that must have been a gag, but now her mother held it like a leash, a garrotte. Rapunzel looked at me. I had expected tears and smiles—but I had taken too long. She was crying. The tears were streaming, yes, leaving clear tracks on her bloody face. She shook her head, she croaked—only blood came out. Blood and sobs.

The look on her mother's face? Terrifying.

"Oh, stop your blubbering, my flower. It will grow back." She did not smile; she bared her teeth like a wolf and patted Rapunzel's cheek, forcing her head against her hip. She stared me down. Rapunzel cried out like the woman's hand was made of the same boiling sugar as her voice, "The next time I sing for you."

I did not want to look at what was in her other hand. I refused to look. I looked at the blood dripping down to the floor—from the mess in her left hand, from Rapunzel's mouth. I could put the pieces together. I did not need to see it.

"We…" _We both love Rapunzel,_ sounded kind of… dumb, considering the woman had her tongue smashed in a bloody pair of tongs. I pushed myself out of the hole and deliberately avoided looking at her left hand again, "She's not going to stay here."

"No." the woman agreed, "She's not."

Her hand moved, she held Rapunzel's severed tongue between us. It was a warning. She cared about Rapunzel—her hair, at least—and she could do _that_ to her _._ It would be prudent for me to consider what she would do _to me,_ the one she did not care about, the one who was of no use to her.

I ignored that warning. I was a grown man, and I was not going to be intimidated, not by her. If she was going to kill Rapunzel, she would have done it by now and that was the only thing that worried me. I had thirty pounds on her; most of it was muscle, some of it was bone. She knew it. I could see it in her eyes. She was afraid of me. She was afraid of the changes I had brought to Rapunzel's world, the taste of freedom, the feeling of mutual trust and respect… the thrill of a little petty larceny.

I bolted for her—I would draw the knife when she could not shield herself with Rapunzel, when I had to, if I had to. She hit the plaster wall, hard, and slumped into the stairs. Not dead—just knocked out. She was more frail than she looked. How long had she forced that body to go on? Centuries? Tens of thousands of years? A millenia? Perhaps Rapunzel's hair only kept her _looking_ young. Perhaps, on the inside her body was just as frail as any old woman. That was fine. That was okay. I wanted her dead; but I was not going to go through the ordeal of killing her.

I dropped to my knees behind Rapunzel, "Let's get you out of here."

I pulled my lockpick from my pocket. She shook her head, her eyes darting from me to her mother's slumped body. She croaked something, either _kill her now_ or _cut my hair._ I could not tell, but I was not going to cut her hair and leave her without a tongue—that was not worth it. I only heard the incantation once but my memory was good, when I was not trying to pick a lock. I was not going to murder someone Rapunzel had an inkling of affection for—that was not a great way to start a new life. Like everyone else I left behind, she could die on her own, far, far away from either one of us.

"We'll have plenty of time. Later. Let me pick this lock."

My hands were shaking— _she had cut out her tongue!_ —and I had to force myself to focus on the shackles around Rapunzel's wrists. They were old, rusty. They had not been touched in years, maybe eighteen, maybe more, but they had always been intended for her. Rapunzel had worn her skin to blister underneath the cold metal. She shook her head and pulled her hands away from mine, insisting, again, that I do something _else._

"Rapunzel," I pulled her hands back. It was a difficult gesture to make soothing, but I gave her hand a comforting squeeze, "She'll come to..."

Rapunzel nodded, her eyes darted to her mother again. She had given up trying to speak.

"... we need to run. Let me pick the lock."

She shook her head.

One second I was fitting the lockpick into the shackle. The next I was thrown into the wall so hard it cracked—it, or my skull. As I blinked through the haze of stars, I saw a flash of the woman with the frying pan raised above her head. She struck me with all her might, knocking me away from Rapunzel and laying me out on the floor.

I had chosen wrong.

I felt a weight on my chest. Rapunzel was trying to force words out. The woman—a terrible excuse for a mother—chuckled at her attempts to barter and beg, "You want him to live so badly, my flower?"

Rapunzel's little grunt sounded hopeful, almost cheerful. Could I still move? I needed to move—but my head was pounding and nothing worked. Not even a finger.

"Oh," she did not mean it, "The things I _do_ for love!"

I felt the heel of her shoe grind into my palm. The noise Rapunzel made next was… horrible. And the _pain_ —I was grateful for the blow on the head. I was not able to feel all of it. My eyes—one eye. My right eye, fluttered open and I saw, just for a moment, that Rapunzel had thrown herself over my chest to shield me from the long knife in her mother's hand. So, her mother had done what any reasonable parent would do and stabbed me in the eye. The last thing I saw was Rapunzel, her empty mouth open, too stunned to scream, before I raised my hand to shield my face… And I saw no more.

But I was aware of plenty after that.

The pain, mostly. The woman twisted the knife—mauling my left eye, and crippling my hand. I felt her throw Rapunzel off of me with a laugh, "Can't follow us, now, can he? Can't save you. But, _well,_ at least he's alive?"

 _I'm so sorry to disappoint,_ I would have said glibly, if I could do anything aside from choke on the pain, Flynn Rider would shrug it off with a laugh. He would keep moving. He was the hero, the dashing rogue—there was nothing he could not do, nothing was off limits to him, either through dumb luck, determination, or grit. But she was right. I would live. I could stagger on for years; same as her.

Instinct—Eugene's instinct, not Flynn's and _certainly_ not my own—kept me down. I could not see; I was not going to do any fighting. If I just played dead, slowed my breath to a crawl, same as she had, I could wait out the pain. I'd be blind, but how hard would one girl with magic hair be too track down? Max would do most of the work… Of course, I could not get the guys out of the slammer, not blind—but maybe Max could...

"Don't look at me like that, sweetie. I promised I wouldn't kill him, didn't I?"

She was stronger than I expected, able to grab me by the throat and drag me backwards until I could feel the low windowsill pressed against the back of my leg. Rapunzel was screaming. I was begging her not to do it—but I don't think much of anything came out, or she did not hear, or she just ignored. She held me out at arm's length, unbalanced and tipped backwards over the window sill. My bloody fingers slipped against the ledge, the cuff of my boot, before finally finding the knife. The tip of the hilt slipped into the gash in my hand and hurt like hell. I grabbed it anyway. I lashed out. It was one blind, clumsy thrust in my weak hand. It did nothing. She was able to wrench it from my grip.

"It wasn't me, dear." Her voice was shrill, to over power mine. Her nails dug into my skin, "Remember that. It was not me."

I felt the wind whipping my hair, sun on my forehead, the woman's hand digging into my throat. I heard Max shouting below.

"It was the fall."


	3. Screaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one hints at the possibility of sexual assault. I have not decided which way I'll go with it yet, but it's there, extremely vague, but there.
> 
> Realistically, Max would just kick Gothel in the head and unceremoniously trample her. We all know that's how this would end, and we'd all like to see it.
> 
> But that's too easy.

I could pull and pull.

I could scream.

It was not going to do anything.

It is hard—impossible—to climb down a ladder with your hands tied behind your back. Mother knew that, and she still dragged me down. A rung caught my toes, my ankle, and I spilled down onto the stone steps below. I could feel Pascal's weight in my hair. He was clinging on, safe, but not safe enough. Pain shot up my arm and across my shoulder and my teeth slammed against each other. Mother would have to drag me down the stairs by my wrists. I knew it would hurt. Stone was unforgiving, it would beat me black and blue and my shoulders were not meant to bend that way, they would be torn to shreds under my skin, but if the magic could bring my tongue back, it would heal my shoulders.

Mother grabbed my hair and hauled me to my feet, "Get up, you pest."

She forced me to walk down the stairs, one hand twisting the hair at the top of my head into a painful knot, the other holding my cuffed hands awkwardly at my side, forcing my shoulders to slant and my back to arch. I dragged my feet and pulled back when I could, I staggered when she pulled hard. I did not want to go—Eugene!—Eugene was down there! Dead. Because of me! He was dead because of me! There was nothing I could do to save him. I could not bear to see it.

I heard a frantic call from the bottom of the tower. Maximus! He tried to force his way in, to climb the steep stairs and get to me. He knew how prisoners and criminals were treated and he knew Mother did not have the right to drag me anywhere in chains, but the door was too narrow for him, no matter how hard he pushed or scraped hooves into the ground or gnashed his teeth to grab at Mother's clothes.

He would have torn her apart, and I would have let him, but Mother put me in front, and Maximus' quick biting stopped. She used me to push him out of the doorway, using me as a shield while he circled tensely, pacing between the two of us and… I looked. I wish I had not. Eugene was lying on his back in the sun, his face, mercifully, turned away. Mother had always been sure to tell me how _final_ a fall from the window was, to keep me away from it, but maybe he was not… Maybe he had not… If I could get to him, if I could sing, I could heal him. He would be as good as new and there would be nothing mother could do about it, if he was just…

But I could not sing.

If he was dead, I could do nothing. If there was even half a breath left in him, Mother would cut it from his chest, I knew it. She pushed me to Eugene's body. I shook my head. I pushed in with my toes and leaned backwards, trying to force Mother away. Max tried to wedge himself between us. He bit Mother's hands, trying to make her lose her grip on the chain, on my hair, but she refused to let me go, I knew it hurt her. I heard her curse and grunt. I closed my eyes and turned my face away as she forced me to walk closer and closer to Eugene.

"This is what will happen to anyone who follows us." Mother held me so I was leaning over Eugene's body. I could not turn my head. All I could do was close my eyes and swallow a mouthful of blood and listen to Maximus' hooves shuffling nervously. "I want you to paint it." She hissed in my ear, "Right above your bed, in our new home. So open your eyes and take a good look."

I did not want to see—I had already seen. I was not likely to forget it. If I never opened my eyes, would she stand here forever? She was the stubborn one, the unyielding one. I was always the one that surrendered, that gave up, that did as she said. I kept my eyes closed. I would not open them. She could blind me like him. She could stand until she grew old and she had to sing the incantation. So long as one single hair was touching Eugene, he would come back. I had to believe that.

But I listened to the whine that escaped Maximus when he realized what Mother had done and I broke.

Then Mother forced me away.

I did not want to leave the tower—even if she never buried Eugene's body and she let wild animals eat him under the window; I did not want to leave. I was the Lost Princess. Three days ago I had not even known what this land was called and I was _Princess!_ Corona was where I belonged! When I escaped, I wanted to be close. When Eugene and I never came back from seeing the lanterns, maybe the men from the Snuggly Duckling would wonder where we had gone? They would look for me; they knew I was kept in a tower. I had told them I was! I wanted them to find me. Maybe the Captain would tell the King and Queen about the girl he had seen with Flynn in the tunnels, or the librarian in the town, or the girls that had braided my hair, and then they would wonder why I was not with him when he was caught, and then they would _realize._ They would _know_ and they would _find me._

But Mother knew all that, too. So it did not matter if I pulled, it did not matter if I screamed, and it did not matter if Eugene was gone and only he knew where the tower was. She wanted to leave, and so we would leave.

I felt a tug. I looked back. Eugene's hand was clinging to my hair. Not very hard, but as hard as he could, and that was barely enough to let me know he was still _there._ He was still _trying_. I hummed the melody Mother had pressed into me since my earliest memories—but the melody was useless without the words. My hair did not glow; it would not heal anything. Mother scoffed and started to pull my hair away, but there was seventy feet of it, and there was still so much left.

Max stopped his frantic pacing to plant a hoof on my hair, anchoring it in place between Mother and Eugene so she could not pull it away. He whinnied, loud and angry, _demanding_ Mother let me go, but Mother did not take orders from a horse. She brandished her bloody knife and slashed at his neck, either to scare him away or to kill him. I did not think she cared. I did try to run to Eugene, because Mother could not hold the chain _and_ my hair _and_ the knife, but Mother saw what I was doing and started wrapping my hair around her hand and her elbow like she might coil up a rope, until most of it was secure and twisted away. Max could not step on it, Eugene could not grab it, and I could not slip free, then she stabbed the knife forward once more, striking the side of Max's neck. He flinched from the knife, letting go of my hair so Mother could whip it away from Eugene's hand.

Max reared up, and tried to hit her with his hooves. I was behind her again, and he knew he had to knock her out or I would be taken further away. Mother put herself behind me, but Max did not give up. He grabbed the chain that had fallen in the grass to pull me back, though I know it hurt his teeth. It hurt me, too. When the chain slipped out of his mouth, he went to Eugene, nudged him with his nose, bit the back of his vest, and tried to pull him to his feet.

He did not want me to go, but he did not want to leave Eugene. He was calling, angry, desperate, and confused. I could still hear him well after we had passed the curtain of vines that hid the tower from the world. I dug my toes in and tried to push against the ground to wrench myself free, like I was climbing a wall, not nearly crawling on the ground.

"That's _enough_ , Rapunzel."

I screamed. The words were inhuman, hollow, formless, _It's not nearly enough!_

Mother gave my hair a shake, wrenching my neck, like I was a stubborn mule, "Stop it!"

I kept screaming. Someone would hear me. The woods were not endless, but the world was and Eugene was not the only person in it. Someone would hear me. Someone would help. Some guards that might have chased the elusive _Flynn Rider_ into the woods, or the men at the Snuggly Duckling. Someone would hear. Anyone. Even just a bird. I threw myself down and screamed as loud as I could back to the tower, the Snuggly Duckling, the kingdom, because Mother was not going to kill me, she was not going to let my hair go to waste. She could cut whatever parts she liked off—she could never stop me from screaming, and pain was temporary.

I took a breath and screamed again.

I had never been so loud. Mother had always told me to be quiet. Don't laugh too loud when you play, mummy is trying to sleep. Don't sing too loud, someone might find the tower and take you away. Don't blubber, it irritates mummy. You don't want to irritate mummy, do you, dear?

Irritating her was not enough. It was all I could think to do, it was all I _could_ do. It was one of the first lessons Eugene had told me. Once my hair was braided, and before the day got too busy, he had taken hold of my elbow and told me, very firmly, that if anyone tried to grab me when his back was turned, that I was to scream, as loud as I could. Maybe he had been worried about Mother springing from the shadows. Maybe he had been worried about the men from the dam and the shore, maybe the guards.

"Someone will hear you!"

 _That's the point!_ I shrieked, but the words were impossible to understand, even for me, _He should have killed you!_

Mother had not understood a word I had said, but she slapped me all the same. I hit the ground, dazed. I watched Pascal scurry to the safety of the trees, shifting from green to a dark brown to hide himself. He would never be far—but he would be safe. He could always keep himself safe. I closed her eyes. My throat hurt. The place I used to have a tongue throbbed. I had pulled my shoulders out of place in my struggle and a fire spread across my back. My feet were scraped bloody and I could feel, in the stillness, a stray splinter stuck painfully under a toenail.

I heard a twig snap, and heavy feet in the leaves.

Was it Max? Had he given up on Eugene and come to get me? I had never ridden a horse, but the idea of jumping on him in the dead of night and racing away filled me with hope. With Max, I could ride so fast and so far that… Where? Ride to where? The man I could not save? The parents who would never believe me?

Above me, Mother sucked in a breath, "You!?"

Stupidly, I turned to the noise with the biggest smile I could manage. I expected Eugene to stagger out of the trees, beaten as he was—but no. No. It was not him. It was the red-haired men from the dam. My smile fell—they did not care. Upside down, they looked the same as they had before, big and mean. My screaming had brought them, and I knew they hated Eugene, but I was not Eugene, and _Mother_ had left them knocked out on the shoreline, not me. They were itching to do the same to her, and I could have outrun them at the shore if my hair had not gotten caught. I had outrun them before. I could outrun them again.

Mother pulled me out of the dirt, the hand that held the chain wrapped around my middle and her other hand brandished the knife in front of us both. She was afraid. I was glad—but it was not a kind of glad I _liked._ This kind was not a lightness in my chest or a tingling in my toes. This kind of glad was hot in my cheeks and pounding in my chest. A little angry, a little afraid, a little glad, "You… You were supposed to be…!"

"It's easy to escape in a prison break, even if it's not meant for you. Who knew?" the man in green smiled at me, like Mother and her knife were not even there. It was not friendly, "Now, where's Rider? Didn't come back for you?"

"He had an unfortunate accident." Mother tried to sound calm.

He frowned, like he felt so sorry. I knew it was a lie, "Guess we'll have to settle for the second best part, won't we?"

Then the man drew a knife and his brother reached for me. Mother tightened her grip on my waist. She spluttered quickly, "If you kill me..! Y-you... You'll lose the incantation!"

The man in black froze, his hand inches away from my tangled hair.  
His brother turned my chin up with the hilt of his knife, "Incantation? Seems to me you'd know it."

If I lied, would they kill her? That would be one less pair of hands to grab me when I ran—and the incantation would die with Mother. I would tell no one, no matter what they threatened and no matter what they did. They could rip and cut and tear whatever part of me they liked—I would never write it down, I would never hum the tune.

But if I escaped with no way to sing..?

I did not want to believe Eugene was dead. I knew it was true but… If I escaped with no way to sing, how would I heal him? He was too weak to sing the incantation himself. If I took too long to escape, if I waited for my tongue to be healed so I could sing for him, Eugene would be too far gone to save.

Be captive, and Eugene was dead. Escape, and Eugene was dead.

Eugene would want me to escape. Eugene would want me to live. It was what _I_ wanted. It would be painful to go on without him; but not impossible. The world was full of people. They were not all like the men before me now and they were not all like Mother. I just had to get a knife. Only a knife. The one in mother's hand or the one under my chin. Either one would do. I just had to cut my hair. No one would think the mute brunette living on the streets in Corona was the Lost Princess; but no one would be able to use my powers again.

It was almost a fair trade.

I shook my head no.

"Little _brat!_ " Mother grunted. The knife pointed at the brothers moved quickly, slicing off the tip of my nose so I would scream again and they would see what she had done. They both flinched back. "So she _can't_ tell you the incantation! Can you, my flower?"

I shook my head again.

"You're wanted men here, right? We're leaving, and we need an escort for the road. We need to leave, you _have_ to leave."

The man folded his arms. The two could live perfectly well without us. Everyone knew that. Even Mother, "What are you offering this time?"

Mother was silent for a moment. The men waited, just as satisfied with her uncomfortable silence as I was. It felt good, for _her_ to be the one struck dumb for a change. We had left the tower with next to nothing. Just a little food, a single, very bloody, frying pan, and less than a handful of coins; not enough to satisfy them. My hair was the most valuable thing Mother had, and I knew she was not willing to share. She and I both knew she could not fight them both. Her arm relaxed around my waist. I was trapped between the three of them with no escape, she did not have to worry.

"I need a child that is easier to control. Do what you like with her _,_ and I'm sure one way or the other I'll get what I need." I did not like mother's tone or the looks on their faces, "Keep her alive, keep her quiet, keep her from escaping, and don't damage her hair."

The expressions on their faces did not change. Neither one _agreed_ to Mother's vague terms, but they did not disagree, either. They only glanced side-long at each other before putting away their knives. Mother assumed she had an alliance. She let me go and shoved me to them. "I'm sick of dragging the brat. Carry her."

I made a break for it.

The man in green grabbed my arm before I could slip between him and his brother. His brother grabbed the chain, "I don't think so, sugar. You've got one hell of a pair of lungs. Stop screaming, or I'll gag you again. You'll be swallowing blood for the day. You'll make yourself sick."

Defiant, I swallowed a mouthful of blood.

And then I screamed again.

The man hit me with the back of his hand, but it felt like a rock. Mother's hits knocked me down, _his_ felt like he had knocked me clear out of my head. I heard Mother laughing as the man in black planted a foot on my chest to keep me down as his brother leaned over me to force the gag back over my mouth. The fabric was stiff, sticky, and the smell of blood was overwhelming.

He tossed me over his shoulder so the blood rushed to my head and my mouth bled more. He followed Mother and his brother followed him. Pascal scurried along the forest floor, before jumping into my hair and turning the same shade of gold. He climbed it as easy as the brothers might climb a rope and hid on my shoulder. That night, mother refused to let me eat. I had no hunger, and my mouth was still bleeding. The man was right—it had made me sick. He chained our wrists together that night. Mother did not sing the incantation for me.

I did not sleep.


	4. Unnecessary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got some drug use here, not recreational, some alcohol, some unhealthy coping mechanisms.

Rust.

It was a haze in my head. The color swirled and drifted in the black. When I blinked and tried to focus, I felt the knife all over again. Opening my left eye felt like the drag of a sharp fingernail. Closing it felt like pins. Tears left a sting. My right eye was just a dull, constant ache. The color stayed.

It was a smell. 

Dirt, wet under my nails. Grass, cool on my skin. Blood. 

I felt a tug on my collar. Max was trying to pull me up. How long had I laid there? How long would he have tried to pull me up? Hours? Minutes? A day? I pushed myself up on my elbow—my right arm was not broken—and turned my head. There was only black, and the inescapable cloud of rust. I stayed there and reminded myself that  _ breathing _ was a thing I could do. Even if it hurt.

Cracked rib. That was a cracked rib.

Two cracked ribs?

“Rapunzel?”

I heard nothing—I knew I would hear nothing, but the silence still burned. She was gone; and I had been powerless to stop it. She had not wanted to go, and I had been  _ useless.  _ She had tried to tell me exactly what she needed, and I had not listened.

If I could not hear her, she was miles away, too far to limp, too far to catch, but if she was going to fight every step of the way—which I hoped she would—then Max could catch up. It was a bad idea to ride with a broken… everything, but Max was faster than anyone on foot; and it did not matter how bad the pain was now, Rapunzel would end it.

What moved, what did not? I needed to know. My left arm hurt from my elbow to my fingers. This was not the first time I had been thrown out of a window. The only distinction Rapunzel’s tower had was that it was the  _ highest _ , and if I was lucky, the  _ last.  _ I had learned, about the third time, that my right hand was a lot more valuable than my left. Many bad years and more bad falls had taught me to catch myself with my left hand—I did not always break bones.

Five. Five cracked ribs.

My left leg moved, with pain. Lots of pain. It was my hip. My right leg moved with just a slight twinge in my knee that was—Ow! Just a rock.

Six? No, just a bruise.

I felt something wedge under my arm and press up against my chest. I heard a sudden snort, felt a puff of warm air brush my skin. It was Max. He wedged himself further under my chest, so that I was awkwardly laying over his neck, getting horse hair stuck to the blood on my face.

And yes, six ribs.

Max shuffled his hooves, a warning that he would move again. I tangled my right hand in his mane, grateful to have just  _ one _ hand that still worked. My left hand had gone stiff, fingers were broken and the gash by my thumb stung. The wound on my hand had been a lucky strike. She had stabbed between my thumb and first finger, where there were no bones to stop the blade. When I healed, I would still have both hands—I would trade one hand for an eye, if I could. 

I could tell by the sudden noise Max made when I had to put my weight on  _ him _ and not my left leg that he was not expecting helping me along to be so hard, but he stuck with it. He helped me limp a few feet further, then he stopped, carefully bowing to let me slide down. I felt cold water seeping into my pants at the knees.

He had taken me to the stream. The water soothed the pain in my fingers, but made the cut burn. The mix of cold water and hot blood on my skin was jarring—the bleeding did not stop, and the rust remained. I clenched my teeth and pressed down to examine the damage. My right eye was back in the tower. My left eye was… worse. 

“Max, pull me up.”

I could smell the horse move close again, grass and sweat—mostly sweat. I did not know when he last slept, when he last had that heavy saddle off. Last night could not have been easy for him. I held my left arm close and grabbed hold of his mane with my right. Between the two of us, I got to my feet again. Then came the hard part. I gritted my teeth against the pain as my left arm searched the saddle until I found the stirrup.

Max whinnied with pain as I grabbed hold of his mane again and put my right foot in the stirrup, forcing him to bear most of my weight with his hair to spare my left hip, but to his credit, he did not buck or kick me away. He shook his head and made a noise like he was impressed _and_ offended as I scrambled into the saddle. There was a twinge of pain in my left leg as I threw it over his back. It had to be done. I sat there for a while, whinging as the world sloshed around me and every broken bone throbbed, the sturrup under my right heel, the tangle of coarse hair in my fist, felt like the only things keeping me steady, and if I fell again I fall forever. I just had to breathe. I could only take it one step at a time; and this step was breathing. Max waited until I gave him a little jab with my heel, “Come on.”

He did not go valiantly racing after them. He was careful with me; just listening to the thud of his hooves on the ground, it  _ sounded  _ like he only took one foot of the ground at a time. The smallest shift of my weight sent twinges of pain everywhere. I kept low. I had ducked when we raced through the tunnel; I was not about to let myself get knocked off the horse now. I searched for the reins, I found them hanging over the right side of Max’s neck. I heard the soft rustle of leaves, then I felt the vines brush my arm. I pulled Max to a stop and reached out—damn my shoulder!—and grabbed as many of them as I could reach. I tugged down as hard as I could. It was not anger; I just wanted the tower to be found by someone else, anyone else— _ everyone _ else. Max tossed his head and grunted. I heard more vines fall. I could feel his neck moving under my hand as he pulled them down with his teeth.

I steered him away from Corona, to the south east. I doubted her mother would try to hide with her in the city, and if she went true east she would run too close to Old Corona, too far south and she would be heading to the main road that connected Corona to Rochester. She would want to stay out of sight; she would not go there. If she went west she would either pass the Snuggly Duckling or not, but unless she spent a day zig-zagging to avoid every little town and farming village in the countryside while she looked for safe passage downstream of the busted damn,  _ someone _ was bound to notice she was dragging a girl with long blonde hair on a chain. Would she do the same thing through Rochester? No. The land around Vardaros was underpopulated. She would go there; and if she was not planning to go there, she would likely find her way there.

It was easier to leave by going over the mountains in the South. The wall that was so imposing and impassable at Old Corona was crumbling to dust in the mountains—it was hundreds of years old. A wall could stop an army from passing; but it could not stop the mountain from rising. The wall had fallen into disrepair because more men died trying to fix it than passed over it, and treaties had made it obsolete—and only a fool would cross those mountains. I had lived in them, darting back and forth between Corona, Equis, Rochester, and the disputed, lawless territory around Vardaros, because I was a fool, but I was a fool that knew those mountains like the back of my hand—at least, I had, when I could see. 

But Max did not go south east, he went north.

“Max!” I jabbed him again, trying to pull him back, “She would not go that way.”

Max did not go. He snorted and shook his head.

“When we find Blondie, it won’t matter.” He refused to move. I stopped in the middle of spurring him forward to cringe and clutch my side. It did not help my case. Neither did the crack in my voice when I insisted, “She’ll patch me up fine!”

Did I even  _ know _ the incantation…? Really know it? I had been distracted each time I had heard it, the first by the cold water and the pressing darkness, the second by the _ glowing hair.  _ With Rapunzel unable to sing, without remembering the words… We would cross that bridge later. I spurred Max forward. 

Max started north again, either to take me to the Snuggly Duckling or the Kingdom. I pulled the reins back, hard. He did not like that. He circled to confuse me. It worked, I was already light-headed from getting cold-clocked with a skillet, and one little circle forced me to hunch over and grip the saddle for stability. The world was invisible, but it was still reeling. Even the rust seemed to swirl like sand stirred in a glass of water. A horse could get the best of me. This was horrible.

“ _ Max! _ ”

He started walking in whatever direction he wanted.

I had no idea where we were headed. I was  _ furious _ with him for it, but it hurt too much to do anything about it. But my outburst had not hurt;  _ breathing _ hurt. Breathing felt like my lungs were pressing against knives and razors. But shouting? Shouting did not hurt at all.

“ _ Rapunzel!” _ I hoped that the sound of a dead man’s shouting would scare the old woman into dropping the chain so Blondie could sprint back to me. It only sent birds flying. Maximus bristled, then he stilled, listening. I could feel tugging on the reins as he turned his head, looking for any sign of movement around us, I shouted again, “ _ Rapunzel!” _

Again, it was still.

Cooler heads prevailed— _ Max’s _ head prevailed. I had no real choice in the matter. It was either limp blindly, or go where he wanted, and  _ he _ wanted to go back towards Corona, no matter which way I tugged the reins or how many times I said how bad of a horse and guardsman he was. He knew he was right, and I did not mean it, anyway.

I did not fight him long. There was no winning. I gave up, and I hated myself for it.

Time dragged on. The woods were unnervingly quiet and the  _ rust _ still clung to me. It was warm; I had escaped in the morning, if it was warm now, it meant there was plenty of day left to go. I did not like that. Daylight meant they could… No—if she wanted to be unseen, she was more  _ likely _ to travel at night. I frowned, and I knew, deep down, that she would drag Rapunzel through the day, then the night, until the morning came again, anything put distance between Corona and her. I was not the only person she had to fear and she knew that. There were other houses on the edges of the woods, thieves that hid in the mountains, the woods, all she knew was that I had slipped free of her trap;  _ how  _ I had managed that was a mystery to her.

She knew I had either managed to trade my freedom to the king for a promise of immortality; or someone sprung me free, and if someone sprung me free, someone would search when I did not return.

But to make it from the shore to her tower, they must have walked through  _ last _ night, too, probably just as much as I had with my endless pacing. I felt no sympathy for the old woman. She could march until she dropped. But Rapunzel… Had she even given her a second to eat? Maybe an hour’s nap before she had chained her to the wall?

It had been a rough night all around.

“Rider?”

I jumped at the sudden noise. It had been so fast, came out of nowhere. I could not recognize the voice—or had I imagined it? Max kept walking in slow, careful steps towards a voice that shouted away from me, “Flynn’s back!”

It was Big Nose. I heard his boots in the dirt of the road, coming closer, “They didn’t spring you so she could turn you doooo _ Oh my stars! _ ” he got close enough to see. His boots moved faster, “Rider, wha— _ What happened _ ?”

He did not wait for an answer. As carefully as he could, he pulled me off the horse. My heel caught the edge of the saddle. A bolt of pain shot down my thigh and up my side. I grunted. Big Nose panicked and fumbled with me, nearly dropping me into the dirt.

I tried to keep my good humor, “... Lucky number seven!”

He was nearly crying, “ _ What!? _ ”

“Seven ribs.” I grunted, “Broken.”

“Not funny, Flynn! What happened?”

It was the pride talking—Flynn’s pride. That name turned me around, like a coin. Eugene was thrown into shadow and I was just  _ Flynn. _ And Flynn was stoic in his shortcomings. Flynn did not share his stories for fear of what would slip through the cracks in his mask. “I fell.”

Big Nose spared me the indigity of carrying me, bridal-style, into the Snuggly Duckling. He did not throw me, and my broken ribs, over his shoulder. Both ways would have been quicker. I knew he had to stoop to drag me to the door, he was much taller than me, “The steps, Flynn.”

His warning did nothing. I barely heard it above the cheers and shouts of the welcome party. Then there was a sour gasp of a cord from the concertina and a clatter of dropped mugs as my feet staggered on each step. Big Nose hauled me in as gently as he could, but the pain won, in the end. I hissed, my right hand twisting the fur of his cloak. No one heard me over the panic in his voice, “Go on, move. Greno, go get a doctor.”

I heard them scrambling as Big Nose hauled me deeper into the nauseating haze of brown—the rust got darker with each step. It was still cool inside. The fire had not been lit, and the tree kept the Duckling shady at all hours, “Okay, Flynn, I’m setting you down now. Here’s a chair, Bruiser, give me a hand—Careful with his arm!”

It did not matter how careful Bruiser was, but it was not his fault the pain clawed at my side. 

Again, Big Nose asked, “Rider, what happened?”

I did not answer. I heard a glass slide on the rough table. I could smell beer—I could not actually lift it. A hot hand grabbed my right hand and fit it around the handle of the stein, then started to help me lift it. I had never felt so emasculated and so loved at the same time, “You’re going to want to drink that, before Killer starts.”

I opened my mouth to ask just _what_ Killer planned to start, but then I remembered: Killer sews. I let go of the mug and held my hand out, “Get to it. I’m not about to ride out drunk.”  
“R-ride out? Are you _insane!_?”

Eugene was not emotionally capable of explaining. Flynn Rider would not suffer the indignity. Somewhere in between the two was me. If I told him what happened, what really happened… I was not prepared to tell that story, “Yes.”

“B-bruiser…?” Big Nose thought it was a terrible idea and wanted no part of it. He hid it well, but his voice had an edge, “Give him one of your needles to bite on?”

Another hand, cold this time, but still just as rough, grabbed my own. Big Nose put his entire weight on my forearm to keep me still. I felt a cold burn as alcohol was dumped over the wound. Not beer, it was the strong stuff. The strongest they had. Bruiser urged me, “Come on, Flynn. Bite.”

Killer—it was definitely Killer—pushed the sewing needle into my hand without warning and Bruiser did not need to tell me twice, the wooden needle dented in my teeth, but it did not break. I had to fight not to clench my left hand into a fist, and just pressed my right hand against the edge of the table, my fingernails leaving trails I could not see—but I could feel the wood peeling away as I breathed fast to keep myself from screaming.

“Tor!” I heard Big Nose exclaim, “You’re  _ not _ … No. No! I’m glad you’ve got it but you’re supposed to be getting  _ clean _ !”

“No!” I spit the knitting needle out of my mouth. I knew what they were talking about, “No, I don’t— _ Gah! _ —Don’t want it!”

“Just a little. Just for the pain.”

Opium did not help with  _ pain _ ; it only made you sleep. It made you struggle less, made you  _ desire _ less, made you  _ do less _ . I had miles to cover, battles to fight, and plenty more I wanted to do  _ after _ that. I had no need for opium, “ _ I’ll bite your damn fingers off! _ ”

My two days with Blondie had been great for me; I was always careful around women. They did not like coarse men, not in my experience—or maybe I liked women who did not like men who swore. It was hard to tell sometimes and I had never had any reason to question it. I had only slipped up once, and  _ that  _ had been when I was underwater, and faced with the reality of death as well as the reality of magic glowing hair. A single, punctuated  _ fuck _ was understandable. Rapunzel had not seemed to mind; if she had even heard it.

Now the floodgates were open: “You want to lose your fucking teeth? Because this is how we lose our teeth!”

“That came from a place of anger.” Big Nose tried to soothe me as I tucked my right knee to my chest, ready to kick anyone who came near me off.

“It came from my sense of self-preservation!”

I felt pressure against my foot as someone tried to come close. I did not know what, really, they were planning, but they were warned. I kicked back, as hard as I could. They hit something, probably the bar.

It was the worst possible time for someone who was  _ certain _ they would find a victory celebration to throw open the door. But it was thrown open. I probably should not have turned to the door, eyeless and with my teeth bared in pain, but the noise brought back memories of the matron slamming a heavy book down to get our attention; and a whipping usually followed that, years of fear made me turn to the noise.

Atilla handled the shock well, “Sweet rolls!”

Vladimir did not, “ _ What...? What in…? _ ”

He was cut off by a scream I could not place, high and ragged—I was almost certain it was Ulf.

“Someone’s gone for a doctor?”

“No, no! We’re complete animals! Of course someone’s gone for a doctor! What? You want us to let him bleed while we wait!?”

“Keep Tor away from me!” Pain really helped me project, “I won’t take it!”

“Ok, ok,” Hookhand came closer, quickly, “We won’t make you take it, Rider. G’on Tor, get it away from him. Throw it away. You’re not supposed to have it. Atilla, make sure he gets rid of it.”

I heard the scrape of a chair. Hookhand took the beer that was intended for me. I did not mind. I had other concerns. I hissed through the pain of Killer’s needle, “How did you get out?”

“On the…” He did not want to answer, “...  _ Ah _ .”

“ _What?_ On the condition you turn me in?”  
I thought his reply was too slow, but maybe everything seemed slow compared to Killer’s quick needle. He made about ten stitches in the time it took Hookhand to say, “No. Don’t worry about that right now. What happened?”

I had my story and I was sticking to it, vague as it was, “I fell.”

Hookhand glowered. I did not need to see his face. I had my memories, “Off of  _ what _ , Rider?”

This time, it took about fifteen stitches for me to force out, “Blondie’s tower.”

It was not enough for Big Nose. I felt his grip shift on my arm as he turned to demand, “ _ Why?” _

“Because her mother took a particul—argh!—dislike to me!”

That was not unusual; mothers the world over disliked me, fathers too. Magical glowing hair aside, I was not who you wanted to see at the door, or in the windows, or in the closet. Neither one was satisfied, or even convinced by that answer. I could feel it, like lightning getting ready to strike. Killer’s needle stopped—then I felt the cold burn of the strongest whiskey the Snuggly Duckling had. At long last, he was done! I tested my thumb, the strength of his stitches. The skin was sore and each little movement was a whole new world of pain, but it held. Big Nose let me go. It felt like he had pressed bruises into my arm.

He had bigger concerns. True love had been slighted, and he was furious, “She can’t throw us all out. Where is it?”

“She’s not there. Her mother packed up and left,” I sounded entirely too detached. It was Flynn talking. He was always one to kiss and tell, even when it did not go as planned. It was hard for me to share it, but it had to be done. They had to know what they were dealing with, “She had her in chains.”

Big Nose was yelling, but I hardly heard him over the scraping chairs, “ _ Chains?” _

“Chains.”

Everyone started talking at once. Boots started to move on the creaking floor. I was almost entirely forgotten in the shuffle, except for a heavy hand on my shoulder. It would not let me move. I tried. Hookhand pulled me back.

“W-which way do you think they went?”

“Rider’s got no way of knowing!”

“Chains! The poor kid! I never would have  _ thought _ …”

“I wasn’t in the jail break, I’ll go to town.”

“Town? You think she’d go there? Hauling a kid in chains?”

“She was so sweet! To have such a… terrifying woman...!”

“... She’d stick to the woods.” Hookhand was calm, or too worn out from that morning to raise his voice, “Get out there, and stay in groups. She’s got a good head start and we’ll lose their trail in the dark. Rider, we have to know where to start, where is that tower?”

“West—off the road to the right. When the road forks, do not go to Old Corona. You’ll find the entrance between two cliffs, look for a rock by ivy. It’s hidden there. I’ve torn the vines down. You will see it.”

The door did not stop swinging. I could hear the hinges, the steady pounding of boots on the floor as the men set down their glasses to search in my place. It moved enough air in the pub that the still, stale brown smell was swept away and I just saw  _ black _ again, black and rust. I did not expect them to look very long; most of them were drunk and they might not even find the tower. I expected most of them to get lost.

“Eat something while you wait for the doctor.” Hookhand urged me, “Just a cupcake—Atilla made them before we left last night. They were… meant for a happier visit. They’ll find her, Rider. There is plenty of daylight left. Eat something. She’d want you to eat.”

There was no sense in refusing, I had not eaten since that last cupcake with Rapunzel... and it was nearing noon now. A day. I had not eaten in a day. Even with the pain, I was starving. My throat was dry—and I realized some of the pain in the right side of my head was not just the absence of my eye. It was hunger. It caught up with me and my head started to pound. Rapunzel  _ would _ want me to eat, if she knew. I would want  _ her _ to eat, too. 

“Yes—Fine.”

“Atilla, bring him one of those cakes, so he doesn’t keel over before we get something better for him?”

Atilla said nothing, but he moved to obey. The floor creaked where the tree roots wedged it up, and each one was like a thorn stabbing under my skull. He set a little wooden dish down in front of me, and guided my hand to it. I broke a piece of soft, glazed cupcake off and  _ eventually _ managed to find my mouth in the darkness.

“You…” I coughed. It was strongly flavored, a little bitter—but now that I was  _ eating  _ there was no stopping me, not the strong taste or the nausea that slapped me, not the pain in my head, not my better judgement, “Atilla, what is this?”

“Anise?” Atilla sounded unsure. “Yes. Anise.”

“Went a little heavy on it, didn’t you?” 

Atilla’s voice sounded more hollow than before, “Did I?”

It was so heavy it hardly tasted like anise—maybe there was something there that had once tasted like licorice, but it was long gone. My tongue and my head could not match the taste with the word; it did not taste like Anise… but for the life of me, I could not tell myself what I  _ was _ tasting. If anise had a color in my head before, I had not noticed it, but this was a muddy purple, so dark I could barely see it swimming in the darkness.

“The birds can have it when they go stale. I’ll make a fresh batch. I guess I did add it twice.” he laughed, it sounded fake. I chalked it up to nerves. A prison break was stressful enough; but to return and find the guy you had sprung free… in a state like mine. My laughs would be forced, too.

“It was just nerves.” Hookhand had not read my mind. He had been speaking to Atilla, “You were nervous when you made them.”

Atilla cleared his throat. It echoed in his helmet, “I’ll stay. You look. I’ll… make something decent.”

“Right, well, yes…” Hookhand hoisted himself up with a grunt and gave my shoulder a firm pat. I yelped. He pulled his hand away fast, “Ah… Sorry, Rider.”

Then he left, and I assumed the Snuggly Duckling was empty, except for Atilla and me. Maybe the old loon was sleeping in the rafters, but he was graciously silent. Maybe Ulf stayed behind. I listened for his footsteps, but I only heard Atilla’s as he shuffled around. His hands were moving quickly. The clatter of his whisk against the mixing bowl nearly drowned out his nervous humming, but I could hear it, echoing in his helmet. He was distracted—slipping out would have been easy if I could see, what was a little limp?

I could not stay still. I knew, same as Max and Hookhand, that the smart thing was to wait for my bones to heal and my head to get used to the endless darkness. I told myself Rapunzel would want me to wait, she would not want me to drag myself along, slow as molasses, at her expense—even if her hair could take the pain away in less than a minute, and even if I did not truly believe it myself. She had waited eighteen years, what was another handful of weeks? She  _ probably _ thought I was dead, so an  _ eventual _ rescue would be a pleasant surprise, and it would be better than no rescue because I had limped right off a cliff.

But I knew what I was like. I would keep finding excuses and I would keep blaming them on the part of me that was Flynn or the part that was Eugene. I could fit so many excuses into nice little boxes to keep myself feeling sane, feeling blameless. Flynn Rider would say that in the long weeks I spent to heal, Rapunzel would have learned that she did not have to trap dashing rogues up in her hair and hold jewels hostage for a few hours of freedom; her  _ eyes _ could ensnare them just as quickly, and why would she hold out for  _ me _ when she thought I was dead? Dashing rogues were replaceable, and if I was replaced, I had no business with her, I could move on. I could walk away and never face the reality that I was unneeded, unwanted, and useless.

And Eugene would say… Nothing. Eugene had no excuses.

The thought of being  _ replaced _ felt almost the same as  _ being abandoned _ or  _ never adopted. _ And the little part of me that was still Eugene still felt like every one that laid eyes on me saw some invisible mark, some branding that had been there from the moment of my birth. A mark that had made my own mother leave me on the steps in the snow, a mark that kept me  _ unwanted. _ It made me want to crumble to dust. 

Eugene did not want to be replaced, and Flynn, for all his bitter sniping, had never wanted to be  _ wanted _ so fiercely in his life. But those were sad, pathetic, ignoble reasons to get up and stagger to the door, so I told myself I just did not want Rapunzel to be sad and trapped and alone anymore. That was better—and it was even true.

Atilla heard me stagger. He chuckled, but it was tinted with pity, “Rider… You’re by the piano.”

That was not even  _ near _ the door! One little stager and everything was thrown off. It was not surprising. I was  _ blind _ . No one just shrugged  _ blindness _ off, but I had never felt so lost. I had always prided myself on my sense of direction, and now I could not find the door?

Atilla walked around the bar and headed for me. He shadowed me, a living crutch, as my fingers searched the wall, finding splinters, the window, empty frames. His grip was softened by his oven mitt, but just like before, it did not matter how careful he was; it hurt to touch broken bones. I knew I had found the door when my hand found his other hand on the wall; he was holding the door closed. He was close now, and the air was still. The smell of sugar clung to him—pale pink, “She’d want a doctor to put that arm in a sling and take a look at that bump on your head.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“You are not immortal.”

I knew that very well, but I did not want to stay. I refused to stay. I tried to force Atilla’s hand to turn the knob; his oven mitt slipped uselessly over it. I pried it off. My bones were begging me to stop—but I had Rapunzel to worry about. I shoved the door open and tumbled down the stairs, holding onto the door to keep myself upright.

“The guards are out looking for you.”

I whistled for Max. It was short, determined, commanding. I heard him whinney, almost indignant, from some distant patch of shade.

Atilla tried something else, “The Stabbingtons escaped.”

I whistled for Max again, longer, louder, more impatient. He whinnied again, further away. I whistled a third time. He finally obeyed.

_ That _ was all the more reason to leave. I already knew what would happen if they found Rapunzel first. The old woman, at least, would keep her to herself in some out-of-the-way place. The world was big, there were lots of places that were out of the way, but she would not wander endlessly. She would find a new hideaway, another tower, maybe an island, and I would find her. 

Jacob and Wilhelm would sell her to the richest king they could find; the richest king I knew was the Sultan of Pencosta and he was  _ not _ a pleasant man. It would take half a year to travel there for anyone else, but for me, for Flynn Rider, who was wanted in the seven kingdoms and beyond? Trying to dodge guards I could not see, following a road on a map that might as well be blank? She would still be in Pencosta, and I would be in the mines—if I even made it that far. Or if she was even  _ in _ Pencosta. There were richer kings outside the Seven Kingdoms, and there was more to trade than just gold. The Stabbingtons could give her to the Baron for a clean slate. I could snatch her from the Sultan of Pencosta, same as any king. I was merely an irritant to a king; the Baron  _ hated _ me.

I reached for Max. Max knew what I was planning. He stepped to the side so Atilla had to catch me.

The world swayed more than I expected, and then it hit me, like a hammer, or Rapunzel’s frying pan, but with a lot less pain. I was not perfect—I already knew what it felt like when opium hit my bloodstream, sometimes when I had wanted it, sometimes when I did not. It always felt the same, a heaviness in my head, my arms, then the stillness followed. The hollowness in Atilla’s voice, I realized too late, was guilt, “Atilla, you… You  _ drugged _ me?”

“They’re all looking for the girl, Rider. They’re all searching the woods.”

“Drugged me.” I hissed. I sounded angry, but my body could not back that anger up. I could not even stand, “You  _ drugged _ me.”


	5. The Pieces Left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll get a double event today. A new chapter one, which doesn't actually advance the plot at all, and that would be disappointing on its own, so I'm just posting this along with his chapter, which does advance the plot.
> 
> Also, "Prince of Ravens?" That's A badass title, and I hope to use it for an AU.
> 
> Also, there is some brief gore at the very end.

The Snuggly Duckling was blanketed in ravens.

They were silent, staring down at us as we neared the door. When Frederic reached for the handle, only one flew away. I watched it vanish through the branches overhead. I expected them to leave in a swarm, but the host of winged sentinels remained.

It was late afternoon. Twilight would come soon, and we would be expected back at the castle for the evening meal. We had guests, each more dignified and noble than the last; and now that Flynn Rider was at large again, they spit on our soldiers at the same time they demanded their protection, refusing to leave until he was caught. Regardless of what we wanted, regardless of what we wished, regardless of the terrible news that made us want to cling to each other and weep, the King and Queen were obligated to be good hosts.

We were not here to see Flynn Rider as King and Queen.

We were here to see him as the parents of a lost little girl, to see if the piece he had lost matched the hole in our own lives. I felt so monstrously unkind, as though we were only here to descend upon him like vultures, like vampires, like our unwanted guests, I felt as if we had come to selfishly tear into his fresh wounds and drink him dry, heedless of the pain we caused, but there was no malice in our coming, only desperation. Eighteen years had come and gone, and for just a few short hours, Frederic and I had felt _hope,_ from the moment the hook-handed man had said with a smirk, "the idiot hasn't realized he's found the Lost Princess" to the moment the unfortunate-looking one had returned to the gates to tell us that she had been taken further away, that she was untraceable, and Flynn Rider had done the unthinkable, the impossible, the unpredictable.

He had _failed_.

My heart had nearly stopped beating.

But I am Queen. My heart is not allowed to stop.

It was hammering now, and I regretted allowing Cassandra to lace my corset so tight, but _she_ had been distracted as _I_ had been distracted, and by the time I had gotten into Fidela's saddle I realized I could barely breathe… _Baleen_ did not _help_ in times like these. It kept my backbone straight, but that was not the support I required.

The atmosphere of the Snuggly Duckling did not help, either. It smelled like men and stale beer, but also of vanilla and whale oil and old char. One breath, and the inside of my nose felt dry and dead. The feeling spread to my mouth, then my lungs, and I coughed as delicately as I could, a Queen could not balk at the unwashed. The cough caused a hush of deference to spread, and all eyes turned to us. I clenched my fist behind my back.

My locket dug painfully into my palm. I usually wore it next to my heart, in secret pockets sewn into all of my chemises, so that it would be above my heart at all times, even when I slept, but I held it in my hand today. Today it was more important than any other day. I had carried this little piece of my child for years, the lightest millstone in the world. I had no intention of wearing it any more, but I still had to hide it—I did not wear it on a chain because I did not want it to be seen. The secret behind the glass was too valuable.

The hair in the locket was _brown,_ not gold. It was the same shade as my own, the same shade as my sister's, too red to be Frederic's—and the one who took her had _white_ hair. Only four people knew this: Frederic, Willow, myself, and a jeweler far, far away from Corona. I had found it, the morning of her christening, fallen in her little crib like a calling card or some unwanted scrap, but it was precious to me, and the truth of it; that our Princess was meant to be dark-haired, not blonde, was priceless. I could not trust a jeweler in Corona to keep the secret to himself when rumors were flying, but I could not travel. I had just given birth, I was in no state to ride a horse.

I had bound it tightly with thread and gave it to Willow. She took it over the wall into Galcrest, then into Koto, into Pittsford, until she had traveled so far she was outside of the Seven Kingdoms, to escape the whispers of my daughter. She found a jeweler, a little old man in a little old town that would _surely_ forget her face in the few short years between him and death, and she had it put behind a sheet of glass in a brass locket. No diamonds, no rubies. No royal crest.

The jeweler had no way of knowing the hair belonged to the Lost Princess.

"You… You came." The hook-handed man frowned at us. It was not an angry frown, or sinister. It was pained, conflicted. He was stiff. He did not like that we were here. He appreciated that we _were_ , and he would not throw us out, either. He knew he could not have expected us to stay away, but he did not want us to go, I could tell by the careful way he picked his words, "Would you like a drink? It ain't much, but it'll… You'll need bracing."

 _Beer_ was not the support I needed, either, "Thank you, but no."

Frederic shook his head, "Is the man… Well?"

The hook-handed man's frown became sharp, for a moment, then he relaxed, "As well as he can be. Big Nose said he told you?"

"He did." Frederic's voice was grim, "We've come to… make some kind of arrangement."

My hand tightened on the locket. The poor man—if it had just been the fall, he would have only suffered a few broken bones. He would have healed, in time he would have been free to walk, to ride, to fight; he could have easily gone back to his life of crime, but his eyes… one had been taken out cleanly, the other was so badly mangled, the doctor had decided just to remove it, as it was more likely to fester than it was to function. As for the thief, it was unlikely he would steal ever again—and he had no future as anything else.

"You haven't told him?"

"Told him what?" then he realized; had he told Flynn Rider he had found our child? "No… No reason to make it worse… I didn't tell him why you let us go, he won't think it's you."

I doubted he would recognize my voice. I remembered the day he had robbed me well, but for him it was probably one of many freezing cold mornings of a distant year, as forgettable as the ring he had taken from my finger. I knew of no time Frederic had addressed him, and if _he_ had been robbed by Rider, he had never said a word of it. And, as the hook-handed man had explained, Flynn had grown up in Vardaros. Outside of the crown, the Lost Princess held no value to him, he probably knew nothing of the magical flower and midnight search to find it, and if he _had_ heard it, he dismissed it as a fairy tale.

The whispers Willow had heard outside of Corona were much less… pretty.

I did not think of them. I knew they were lies. Frederic knew they were lies. It did not matter what anyone else thought beyond that.

"Are you ready?" Even with our finery gone, our purple satins and brocades replaced with green wool and linen, pearls and sapphires and gold left in our bedroom, he conducted himself like a King. He held his elbow out to me.

I nodded, slipping my free hand into the crook of his arm, "Yes."

"I am... Not sure I am, darling." He looked to the stairs, and he shook his head. He had done so many things in his life he was not ready for, he was quite used to the feeling of stepping forward when there was nothing there to catch him should he fall. We kept our heads high, perhaps too high, as we went up the stairs with the same composure we would walk to the gallows.

We found Flynn Rider on the other side of the only open door.

The room was as black as it could be. The window was shuttered and between the shadows of our shoulders we could see that they were locked. Only a little light slipped in between the shutters and the window sill, falling across him on the bed. He lay there, his face to the ceiling, but I was sure he was not asleep, just still as the grave. In what little light there was, I could see him breathing, too quickly for sleep.

He used to be the terror of the seven kingdoms but now...

What could we ask of the man who has nothing?

Though light was quite useless to him, I saw a box of matches and a candle on the bedside table and resolved to light it. I had to see him clearly. I took two steps to the matches. At the sound of the match striking and hissing, I heard him gasp and move his head, turning to the noise on instinct, on reflex, as if he could still see. Once the candle burned strong, I steeled myself, and turned to him.

The bandages had stopped the bleeding, but they were not _bloodless,_ the stains had dried and faded to brown. If I had not been forewarned, I would have screamed at the realization. But I had been warned, and yet I still wanted to scream—but I still had to be strong, and strong women, responsible women, well-bred women, did not scream. I settled for a white-knuckled grip on the locket. What need did I have to scream? I was not afraid of him, and I was not angry… Not at him. I was angry at the woman that took my daughter from me, that took his sight from him.

"Who are you?"

"Ivan." Frederic lied. Flynn's head turned to face his voice, "My name is Ivan, and this is my wife, Josephine."

"Don't get up."

He did not listen to me. His bare feet dropped to the floor as he pushed himself up with his good arm, cringing in pain as his broken arm pressed against his bandaged ribs.

"Easy there, son."

He sounded offended, either with our pity or our patronizing, "I'm _fine._ What are you here for?"

Frederic waited for an invitation that would never come. He was an imposing shadow in the doorway. The light from below drowned out the light of the candle before it could reach him, and I barely saw his face. His voice was unmistakable to me—but I was his wife. I had known him since he was a young man. I willed Frederic to sound less regal as he said, cooly, "Answers, about the girl, if you have them."

Flynn Rider frowned, "I have nothing to say."

But his tone betrayed him.

Fred and I had discussed what we would say on the ride over, how we would, or would _avoid_ telling him that we were not just _any_ kindly well-to-do couple, but we were the _most_ well-to-do couple: the couple that had ordered him hanged that morning for stealing an insignificant bauble. No matter how guilty we knew he _was,_ the thought of what nearly happened ate at us both: we had nearly killed the man that could have led us to our child. Frederic had signed a new decree at once—no one would hang for anything less than murder, so long as the one that stole our daughter still breathed.

But now I was at a loss for words. A Queen was never at a loss for words, but he did not see the Queen. He only heard footsteps, a shaking voice. I felt stripped of that title; and the illusion of perfection that had shielded me had cracked. A _Queen_ would have a prepared speech, a carefully rehearsed apology, the mother of a lost girl would only have her old scars, "Hold out your hand, please."

His face turned to me, but he eased himself away from me when he felt the mattress beside him caving under me. I was pulled between offense and agony. He was at least twenty four, I knew this well. He was a wanted man in every kingdom, he was beholden to no one, he had needed no one. Of course he would put distance between himself and a strange woman of unknown motives, but my heart ached and wept and reached for him like he was my own. It had spent a day fluttering about, waiting to pull my daughter close at long last, so it very well wanted to cling to _something._ I wanted to pull him to me and never speak again, but that would only confuse him, and undo the work the doctor had done to reset his bones. We were not close. I was a woman of dignity and good breeding. I did not cling to strangers and weep.

Instead, I pulled a sensible length of bronze chain from my pocket, long enough to slip over his head so he would not have to fumble with the clasp to take it on or off, but not so long that it would be a distraction. I slipped the chain through the locket's ring. When his hand stayed at his side, I reached for his wrist, "I do not think you remember it, but you stole from me, once."

He tried to pull back. I did not let him go. My heart started to pound, the blood throbbed in my ears as my hand held his and I pressed my most prized possession into his palm. It felt like I was leaving a piece of myself. Greed and anxiety made me feel nearly ill, flush with fever and weak in the joints. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes as I folded his fingers around the locket and closed my eyes, willing myself to separate from it.

"If you had stolen _this_ from me, Flynn… If you had laid a finger on _this_ , I would have beaten you senseless. I would have chased you to the ends of the earth to get it back, but you were a thief, only a thief, and you did not mean to cause me harm, only wanted gold. You only took a ring. I forgive you."

I let go.

Careful of his damaged hand, Flynn moved the locket so he could examine it with his fingertips. His brows furrowed, dipping behind the bandage. He did not need to see to know it was plain, made only of metal and glass. Not even fine, stained glass. It was flat, on the whole it was barely even as thick as two coins, and hardly bigger than his thumbprint. His fingers traced the curve of simple metal bezel. Not silver, or gold, but his fingers could not tell him that it was only bronze, or that the hair behind the glass was woven into an intricate knot.

"It holds a lock of my daughter's hair."

His hands froze, "It's... Brown?"

It was difficult to describe the feeling that washed over me, but I know Frederic felt it, too, because his hand reached for mine as he crossed the room.

"You… You can't be… Rapunzel's _real_ parents?"

 _Rapunzel._ It hit me like a wave, like thunder, like hail on glass.

I could not permit it to shake me.

A thousand names had crossed my mind, for boys, for girls—names that had taunted me while I waited for death or a miracle on that horrible night, names that I weakly tried to barter and beg and bribe the midwives with, to convince them to cut me open, no matter the risk to me. Please, don't make our Harold die with me. Don't send our Alarice to the grave. Don't take Solara away from her father. Give Percival, _give my child,_ a chance to be. Two days I had thought of names; of my Grandparents and Frederic's, of gilded cousins and aunts and saints as I tested them on my tongue as I gazed at her face, combed her pretty gold hair, and laid out her christening gown, before choosing: _Demanatine_.

And that _woman_ had swept that all away and replaced it with _Rapunzel._

A common name, for a common flower, for a common _girl._

I was stricken speechless, my fingers white around Frederic's as he spoke for me, "We were hoping you could tell us, son? The girl you were with at the lantern festival? Did she have a lock of brown hair?"

He turned his face away from us, to the open door and the freedom he was not allowed. He bowed his head so that he could point to a spot at the base of his skull, nearer to his ear than his spine, "Here. It was here."

I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my mouth to try and stifle the wail. I felt the pain of watching the woman drop into the darkness as the old wound ripped open. She was gone; gone all over again. I felt a thinness in the air, a weight in my chest. The same I had felt when the doctors told me my child would die with me, the same I had felt when days of searching had ended with nothing, and we still had no more than we started with: A black-haired girl too distraught and confused to say a word of her own mother

"We owe you such a debt." I took the locket from his hand and closed the clasp behind his neck, "I will not lie and say it provided me with any comfort; and I do not expect it to bring you any peace now, but it was all I had to cling to.

His smile was reserved, pained, like he was thanking us for the burden of it and apologizing like he had wronged _us_ , as he smoothed the chain over his shoulders, and the pendant fell at his breastbone. A bolt of fear raced up my spine. I wanted to tell him to keep it hidden, as I had, but he did not know we were the king and queen. As far as he was concerned, the hair belonged to his lost love, not the princess. I kept it hidden in a pocket because I had not wanted a thief to spot the chain and demand it—I could have dismissed it as a lock of my sister's hair, if pressed, but I had always feared that lie would never be believed. If he wore it proudly over his clothing, or if it was visible through an open collar, no one, at least, no one outside of the Snuggly Duckling, would realize that the Lost Princess was meant to be burnette, and no one outside of Corona would realize his Rapunzel was my Demanatine.

"Thank you."

"We do not want to leave you here, but… We are in a difficult position. We have guests, and…"

"No… Thank you, but no. I'm still Flynn Rider, except I can't see, and I can't run. All of the risk, none of the benefit. If the guards found me at your place…"

"The guards do not frighten me—" Flynn looked _genuinely concerned_ when Frederic chuckled, "And they certainly do not frighten my wife."

Our lack of fear towards the guards would be a moot point when he was pardoned upon our return, quietly enough that our guests would not start to wonder _why,_ but not so quietly that the guards did not know he was to be brought to the most comfortable guest room in the castle, should he be turned in.

Flynn Rider was not convinced, "And what about Rapunzel, sir? If something happens to you on the road, and I am found at your house with Josephine, where will she have to go? It makes more sense for me to go."

It made _no_ sense for him to go.

"I've… I've stolen a lot, and I've hidden what I can over the years. I can tell you where it is, and if you manage to find it, you can use it to hire someone—or bribe the guards, anything—just get a man named Lance Strongbow out of Southport Prison in Rochester. Tell him I am here; tell him what's happened. By the time it's done, and he's made it here, I'll be healed enough to follow her."

He could not see the smirk that crept over my lips or the little glance I gave Frederic. We had quite a bit more money than him, and some of the fastest horses in Corona at our disposal, too… And I had an Uncle with more influence than he could imagine only a few miles away from that very jailhouse. We could have this _Lance Strongbow_ out of prison in three days. He could be here in less than a week, and, provided he behaved, he would keep that freedom. He would be a good companion for Flynn while he wasted days in the castle waiting for his Rapunzel to be returned. Again, provided he _behaved…_ Of course, he could still keep him company from a dungeon cell _._ We said nothing. We did not want him to suspect anything.

"That will not be needed; my wife…" Frederic laced his lies with truth, "Comes from tougher stock than you realize. Her father was a general, and she was quite willful in her youth. She accompanied him on many expeditions."

My father had also been a _Marquis,_ but, yes, that was entirely true.

"With a good tracker at her side, she will have Rapunzel back within a year."

"All you need do is rest." I tried to make it sound like a suggestion, not an order, "I plan to leave in two days time. After four days, our guests will be gone, and," I nearly slipped up, "Ivan will return for you. I promise. You do not have to worry about a thing."

"Take me with you."

I smiled. For a Queen to travel, she needed a set of hand-picked companions for safety and security. Were he fit to travel, Flynn would be on the short list, but I could not wait for him to heal. Guards had to be outfitted and provisioned, horses shoed and caravans oiled, but that would only take a day. A tracker had to be hired while the trail was still fresh. As much as I hated to pursue my own child with bloodhounds, they would be brought into the woods at first light; all we needed was a scent to follow.

"Son, where did you find her?"

He jumped away from me, and shook his head, his hand jumping to the locket like I had threatened to rip it away, not like Frederic has asked him a perfectly reasonable question.

"Was it near?" I dreaded the answer, no matter what it was, "Could we find it?"

"No, do not go. It is… dark."

It was still light, barely, but it was still light.

"So it is dark." I tried to keep my voice level, but his refusal to breathe a word of her location and the blatant fear in his reaction set me on edge; what did he not want us to find?

"It's a bloody scene."

His words did give me pause. But just because Corona was peaceful, did not mean we had not seen bloody scenes. When there was disaster, Frederic was honor-bound to go—and he was a strong man; but he was not a _hard_ man, when innocent lives were lost in landslides and floods and fires, when bridges collapsed and crops blighted or plagues swept through the land, he would ache for the kingdom and curse himself that he had not known how to use the flower properly, so that he could have saved me _and_ have it forevermore. I was his wife; I could not allow him to face that ache alone. There was no pleasure, for me, in the moments where I stood there knowing that their lives had paid for my own.

I could not tell him that, not yet, "Blood does not disturb us."

"I'm begging you, please… You won't like what you find."

"No, of course not, it was our daughter's prison, but we will go."

"I'm telling you: don't."

But despite his refusal, and the refusal of the men in the pub, we did manage—that is, Maximus led us there.

The tower stretched up, blackened in the night. Maximus showed us where there was a door and a stairway, and we started climbing, our fingers on the wall in the darkness as the column of stairs wound tighter and tighter. There was a chill around me, and I grew apprehensive. What if she was still there, waiting in the darkness, to lure anyone who knew of her crime to their death? I froze. She threw Flynn from the tower, and he was heavier than me. I doubted, very much, that he was as skilled with a sword as I had been at his age, but I was closer to fifty than I was to forty now, and skilled as I had been, these days I did little more than a few bouts with a fencing foil against friends, and at the moment, I was unarmed.

Frederic, of course, had never been overpowered by anyone in his life. It was not his great skill with a blade; it was obstinance, an outright _refusal_ to budge.

I stood there, frozen, one hand on the ladder, thinking of Flynn Rider's warning. Were I younger, frozen on some little adventure, I would reach out a hand and I would feel a squeeze and Willomena would chuckle, "You got this, Darianna."

Frederic's hand was just as soothing, "We can turn back, if you wish, darling."

I shook my head and started to climb the ladder. It was quite dark now. The moon was hidden behind the valley's high walls, and so I could barely see the floor as I moved to brace my hands against it to push myself…My hand _slipped_ on something in the darkness. Something that was uncomfortably soft against my palm, but as it slipped across the floor I heard metal scraping. I looked.

I screamed.

How many pieces of our baby was she going to leave for us to find?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'll be honest, I just had Gothel take out Rapunzel's tongue for gratuitous shock value/so she could not sing while Eugene held onto her hair and heal him…
> 
> But then I realized Arianna and Frederic could find that tongue in a macabre parallel to finding the lock of hair Gothel left behind when she was a baby, and I figured… Why not? It would fuck 'em up REAL BAD.


	6. The Alchemist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I don't know HOW Varian made nickel titanium shape-memory wire. But he did. And it's in the shape of the Dark Kingdom's Sigil/his Dad's tattoo and he takes it everywhere because he's smart science baby and FACE IT he'd have a fidget spinner if he could but he can't so he's got a memory wire charm that he can bend while he thinks and re-heat it forever… and occasionally let his Childhood Hero use as a lock-pick.
> 
> Also, if anyone has a middle name they'd like to suggest for Varian, I'll take it. I've got Artume as a last name, and I was thinking of Edmund for a middle name, but Varian Edmund Artume does not... mesh.

Someone was being dragged up the stairs. I heard it, but I did not _hear_ it, not at first. I was lost in my own thoughts and nauseating haze of _brown_ that wafted up from the lower floor of the Snuggly Duckling. My empty eyes ached. My legs were restless. My hands were itching to pick locks and break free. My mind was on Rapunzel, wondering what path her mother would use to take her through the mountains. Had she planned an exit years in advance, or was she just as blind here as i was here? I knew which way I would go, I knew which way Lance would take to reach Vardaros from Rochester; would it be quicker to rendezvous in Vardaros rather than wait for him here?

"AH!"

I jumped.

"Oye!" Hookhand exclaimed, "I even _warned_ you! What kind of _doctor_ faints at the sight of blood?"

Was it a woman? The footfalls were light on the floor, the voice was… No. No it was a kid. A boy, maybe fourteen, maybe younger. Probably younger. That voice crack was unmistakable, "I'm an _alchemist!"_

It was followed by another high cry and the sound of boots scraping the floor, and the sound of glass clinking against glass as the kid flinched and Hookhand slammed the door with a bit more force than he needed to, "But now that you see how bad he's got it, you understand why he needs your help?"

"Yes. Yes, I understand, sir."

The only thing I needed was to leave, but the window was locked and the bottom floor was constantly occupied. I was in a prison with no escape, condemned to bed rest until Ivan decided to reel me in and put me in a slightly _nicer_ prison. Hookhand had even taken my lock-picks. All of them.

Flynn Rider had once boasted that he could escape a prison blindfolded; it was high time he made good on that boast.

The kid must have looked back at me, because he made a squeak of dread, "But I—I can only help with the pain..."

"Kid, kid, I'm fine." I lied, "I don't need help for pain I'm not feeling."

"Bullshit, Rider!"

The kid gasped, and I heard his hands flying to his ears—no, he was excited. He giggled. Must have been his cheeks. "Rider..? _Flynn Rider?_ You… You don't look..."

"Don't look so good?" I said with pep I was not feeling, "No—no falling out of a tower will do that."

"Look kid." I knew by the boy's little yip that Hookhand was giving him the meanest glare he had, "Rider's a wily bastard."

"Sweet mercy!" his hands were, probably, at his ears this time, "I am a _child!_ "

"That window? Stays locked. Those stairs? He doesn't go near 'em! He has no business going for a 'constitutional' with a broken hip."

I tried, like I had yesterday, "Hookie, I just wanted some air!"

"Can it, Rider!" Hookhand must have turned to the boy again, because I heard him whimper through his teeth and his boots shift on the floor as he cowered, "He's got wanted posters on every corner in town. He ain't gonna be outrunning anyone, I don't care how slow he thinks the guards are. He ain't _riding_ anywhere, either. He's got seven cracked ribs. Flynn Rider stays here; and you aren't going to tell a soul you saw him here, you got that!?"

"I got it!" the kid stammered, "I—I got it!"

The door slammed shut again, leaving the two of us in silence. I did not hear the lock click, but that did not matter. I was not getting out by the front door anytime within the next six weeks. I heard the kid searching his bag. He made a little noise of frustration and searched quicker. "Hey, kid, don't sweat it. I'm not in pain." I lied, "Just sit here for twenty minutes and go. Take a load off."

The kid did not take a load off. I heard the bag shift on the table, glass bottles clinking and papers rustling, and I was certain this was their new scheme to get me to take more opium and sleep until Ivan came to take me away. I would not be tricked—and Hookhand would have to do better than a child. If he thought some kid was going to outwit me, he had another thing coming.

I tried to distract him, but my heart was not in it. It was probably obvious: "Really, you're talking to the one and only Flynn Rider—ask me anything."

"No, no." he was still looking, "I have a… I always have… _there_ you are!"

Then he gleefully kissed the bottle. I heard pills rattling around inside it. I turned back to the ceiling and I waved him away, "Hey, I don't want it. I'm not interested in sleeping."

"It won't make you sleep!" he chirped, "It's just a chemical compound I isolated from extract of Willow bark—it's the strongest painkiller this side of… uh…" he seemed to realize he knew very little of geography, "I call it _Claudarias."_

"Not Willorium?"

"No!" he laughed, it ended in little snort, "My mother's name was _Claudia—_ Now, you'll need to take these with water, that'll make it a lot easier."

He left without explaining why, exactly, his mother's name was significant—he left the door open, too. I heard it squeaking on its hinges, but I did not try to go down that way. The Pub Thugs were the worst guards, constantly drunk, patrolling at random—but they only had to keep one limping, blind man secure; and they were well suited for _that._ I would be spotted at once and security would get tighter, and I did not want Hookhand shouting at the kid over something like that, so I just searched for my clothes.

The locket was an unfamiliar weight against my chest, it was not heavy, but it hit me when I stood, and that made me think about Josephine; the details I could recall, at least. Her hands had been cold, and too smooth for someone who _claimed_ they could follow Rapunzel's trail. I imagine her hair was brown; the same shade as Blondie's hidden lock of hair. Did he have green eyes, or did Rapunzel get her eyes from her father?

I knew she was well-off. I knew a lot more about women's perfume than I would ever confess to Rapunzel; not because I had stolen bottles. Ambergris is costly stuff; it is hard to get, it is time-consuming to prepare... So naturally Stalyan had been obsessed with it, applying it so heavily the smell in her room was inescapable. I hated the scent now, and _Josephine_ nearly drowned me in it—and a bouquet of flowers cut with wormwood, which was exactly the shade of green I had expected it to be.

The thought was… strange. Blondie had a real mother, and she had only been a short trip away. She was just as kind as I had expected, and just as desperate to get her back as me. I was jealous.

Her father… Well, he did not hate me, I think.

I found my shirt in the most obvious place, slung over the foot of the bed. It was not clean—I did not care. I untied the sling at my neck and dropped it somewhere I would, hopefully, find it again. I was certain it was over the foot-board, but it might have been the floor. I reached out. My fingers found the foot-board, I could not feel the scrap of cloth that the doctor had used for a sling. I cursed myself, and decided to fix it later, because right now I had to start the slow, painful, struggle of putting my shirt back on.

The kid's chipper little voice scared the daylights out of me, "Getting dressed?"

"Well, uh…"

It did not dawn on him that I might have an ulterior motive. He just cheerfully urged me on, "It's a good thing! Mom would tell people to keep a routine! You'll stay motivated, even if you can't always do it yourself. I'll help."

The kid helped guide my arm though the sleeve with practiced hands, then he re-tied the sling in place for me. He put something so small it could have been a pebble in my good hand, "Pill first, then drink."

It did not have the same dark taste as the opium—it tasted like almost nothing, maybe a little on the sweet side? Maybe it was all in my head. I appreciated the water more than the pill. I downed the glass. I had not eaten much; I was afraid they would slip me something again, and they would unwittingly have me strung out like Tor by the time I was healed, but the water only tasted of water, nothing else. The kid took the glass away from me and set it down on the bedside table.

I did not particularly care, and I only asked to keep him talking, "So, how'd you learn to make these pills?"

And he chuckled and started to babble about and extracts and alchemical make-up. I reached for my boots. He was _clearly_ not paying much attention to me, because he did not react when I started putting on my shoes… And the little scamp did not bother to tell me I was putting my shoe _on the wrong foot._ A twinge of pain reached up when I moved my left leg. I was certain I was the only _young_ man in the world with a broken hip. That sort of thing was not supposed to happen when you were my age.

I found my vest by the time he started to talk about distilling and boiling points, and I heard a faint clinking sound, like tiny little champagne flutes, and I realized he could not see I was getting dressed because he was taking the time to reorganize his bag.

"... And I realized, then, that if I added that condensed extract to honey and starch, and then _dried_ that solution, I could make it into a pill. Easier to carry, quicker to swallow, faster to work, longer lasting, too!"

I had tuned in just in time. I did not want him to turn around and see me putting on my vest, "But how'd your mom figure into this?"

"Oh," his voice turned a little sad, "She was an apothecary—She taught me how to make a tincture of willow bark when I was just five."

"So you'll be an apothecary, like your mom?"

" _Alchemist!"_ he said defensively, "I'll make the Claudarias because I can, and people need it, but I really—I can't stand the sight of blood."

"Is it that bad?"

"They shouldn't need me to tell them to change the bandages—they look _horrible._ "

I heard him step forward. I flinched back, "Oh, kid, no, don't take them off. Not dry. These things are stuck. You'll make it worse."

He sounded like he was going to be sick, but he was determined to power through it, "You think I don't know that?"

He took my arm, the unbroken one, and tried to get me to sit on the bed, but he was a kid and afraid of hurting me and I was stubborn, so I did not go down easy. He tried to persuade me, "Sit down, Mister Rider. I'll get more water so I can change the bandages."

I felt old enough with a broken hip—I did not need some whipper-snapper tacking on a _mister,_ to boot. I said nothing, because I was too busy clenching everything against the pain of trying to sit with a broken hip… and as soon as the pain stopped, the kid was down the stairs. He left the door unlocked, again, probably because he did not have a key to begin with. That was a major oversight on Hookhand's part. I would not mention it. His mistakes would only benefit me, in the long run.

He came back and helped me lay down. Slowly, carefully, he used the cold water he had brought back to dampen the bandages over my eyes, breaking up the dried blood that held the layers like glue, muttering to himself, "Okay, Varian, keep cool. It's just a little blood. Just a little blood."

He started to unwrap the bandages, lifting my head up when he had to. For a kid that was not a doctor, he had the delicate touch down… But the constant mantra of, "It's just a little blood… Just a little blood…" Was ultimately detrimental to his bedside manner and left me with the feeling that there was _more_ than a little blood. When he unwrapped it down to the last layer, he doused it in water again, just to be sure. It stung, but I managed not to whinge, for his sake. He took a calming breath, "Okay… Okay…"

"I'm ready as I'll ever be." I reminded him.

I could tell by the little noise Varian made that he _would never be_ ready, but he found a good substitute for resolve, and started to tug at the bandage again. It peeled away without so much as a twinge… Varian, of course, squealed like someone had jammed a needle under his littlest toenail. Me telling him it was nothing to squeal about would not help… and would not be true. I could not see it, obviously, but empty eye sockets were not pretty. He swallowed dryly, "Oh… Oh I never want to see that again as long as I live."

He still patched me up dutifully.

"You want something from downstairs? A beer? Some stew?"

It was hard to trust anything they gave me after yesterday. It turned my stomach just _thinking_ about food. I shook my head, "No. I'm fine."

Varian did not like that, "You... You should eat. You need food to heal."

The kid was right. I knew the kid was right. No one in the world would have disagreed with him, except me—but there were other factors at play. I did not want to explain to a kid his age that sometimes, unfortunate circumstances forced you to put your trust in people that would _drug_ you. He was not here for my emotional baggage. He was here because Hookhand had assumed, rightfully so, that a kid would be easier to intimidate into keeping quiet about me… Except that charade would be a little more meaningful if a doctor had not already come yesterday and did a number on me.  
An adult had to be bribed with gold. Hookhand must be running short on that, I reasoned, so he got a kid… Except who in their right mind though a _kid_ would be a good idea?

"Hey, Varian."

Varian sounded so _hopeful_ that I had changed my mind _,_ "Yes?"

"How'd Hookhand find you?"

"I woke up and he was in my house."

"What?"

"He and my father must have been talking about something, but they were done when I got up, and sitting there in silence. Tense silence. Just drinking tea and not looking at each other. Apparently that's a thing people do? I asked who he was and what he was visiting for, because he was a total stranger and no one had said a word to me even though I had been in the room for at least seven minutes. He said he was the owner of a quaint little establishment not too far, and my father had come to him, but before the man could tell me why, my Dad stood upright suddenly and said," Varian put on his best imitation of his father's voice, " 'Son. I have to go. Mind the farm.' turns out he had already packed a bag and he just up and left as soon as I was awake."

I felt the bed cave under him and I knew he was slumped, "He does that a lot, usually every four or five months. He did it more often when Mom was alive to look after me, just… Leave for a while. As I got older he started staying away fewer and fewer days… Or maybe time just seemed to pass faster because I was grown and the days get shorter when you grow up? He was only gone a couple of days when he left about six months ago. I'm sure he'll only be gone a few days, but he never did it so suddenly before."

I failed to see the relevance, but I had stumbled on the kid's weakness: he loved to talk.

"So I asked him again why my father had needed him, not to be rude, but because Dad hadn't let him finish, and he just cleared his throat and told me not to worry about it, because I was too young to understand, but he said he and my dad had agreed that while he was gone he'd keep an eye on me (and as you can imagine that filled me with a sense of complete terror.)"

"Bloodcurdling."

"So I did my chores, and Dad's, Hookhand tried to help me out, but I didn't really need it… I wasn't until my gel trap caught the raccoon, again, that he seemed to really take an interest. He asked me to explain what it was and how I'd done it. I thought he just had a rodent problem; but when I was done he said, 'You're a smart boy; you got a potion in all this mess that'll dull pain and won't put a man to sleep?' And, of course I do! I've spent years perfecting it! I told him as much; and also that it was not a potion, because I'm not a wizard, and that the lab _isn't_ a mess because I know exactly where everything is, _then_ he told me to come with him and not tell anyone where he took me, or who I saw except for my Dad… And here I am."

If Varian's imitation of Hookhand was anything to go by; his portrayal of his father was most likely inaccurate.

"Hmm."

Varian huffed. Clearly, he understood that I did not want to be trapped in this room-but he also knew I was not allowed out. He wanted to lighten the mood; but he also knew there was probably a _reason_ the mood was so heavy in the first place.

He tried asking, "What, um… What _happened_?"

I still was not ready to explain, "It doesn't matter."

That was flimsy. Varian knew it was flimsy, but he did not bother to punch holes in it. He just huffed again and I knew he was slouched down further. If he was irritated, it did not get into his voice. He was obviously eager to be helpful, even if he disliked it. You know what they say—aim for the moon? I gave it my best shot: "You don't happen to have, say, a thin piece of wire, do you?"

"Yes!" Varian squealed, like he had waited thousands of years for someone to ask him for a thin piece of wire. I had not expected that answer. I had not expected that enthusiasm. I had expected to bargain with him, tell him I would eat or talk in exchange for a wire or my lock-picks from behind the bar.

"You'll love this, Mister Rider!" I heard him rummaging in a bag again, "See… Well. No. Feel! Feel it."

He put a metal... Something in my hand. It was no bigger than my palm, but it was a wire. More flat than round, and I could feel dimples in the surface. It had been hammered into shape. I pressed my fingers against it. It was barely wider than a fingernail, thin enough to fit in a lock.

"No… No the whole thing. The shape!"

He sounded especially proud, and he was just a kid trying his best to distract me from my misery, so I put on a smile and indulged him. He had formed it into a circle, except at the very end, where it curved up and down three times before the wire ended.

"It's…" He chuckled smugly, "An alloy of my own invention."

I felt _bad_ bending it out of shape, but if the kid went down to steal the keys or the lock-pick someone would get suspicious and they would be up here to lock the shutters before I had a chance to climb down. I uncurled the circle, just enough that I could use the wire to pick the lock. The kid kept talking, unaware that I had just defaced his charm. I started to feel for the lock on the shutters. I found it. I started to use the makeshift lock pick, leaning close so I could hear the clicks of the tumblers over the kid's rambling. He was talking about how he had made it himself by extracting ore from the Ilmenite caves near his home while trying to find a suitable material for… I will be honest: I tuned him out. Of course, on a better day I would be impressed—bored, sure, but nice enough to listen. _I_ knew nothing about vacuum induction melting, and I had never made an alloy, but if I _had_ , I would feel smug, too.

But right now, I needed him distracted so I could get the shutters open so I could leave, and I had two tumblers— _one_ tumbler left. Then the lock popped open and I threw the shutters open. The brown haze of the Snuggly Duckling was brushed away by a cool draft of colorless, fresh air. It cleared my head. I could not tell if it was very late, or very early. I heard birds, not owls, so I assumed it was day. I held out my hand. That felt like sunlight.

"And I was a little disappointed that it had not worked, so I took a lunch break and started fiddling with it. But I got distracted by it, and I didn't realize how hot my soup had gotten so I took a bite and burned myself and then i dropped it in the bowl…"

"Hey, kid, is it morning or afternoon?"

Varian was the dumbest smart person I had ever met: "Afternoon."

"Ah."

"So, anyway, _that_ was when I realized that…"

"Sorry." I handed his wire charm back to him, "I ruined it."

"No, no! That's the thing! That's what makes it cool! When I reheat it, it… Uh, M-mister Rider? What are you doing?"

I was halfway out the window, "Going for a walk."

"What!?" His voice cracked, but he did not scream, "Mister Rider… Y-you can't see!"

"Oh? I barely noticed." I said as I searched for a stable place to put my foot down with the toe of my boot. I eased myself forward, and I could feel little hands on my sleeve, trying to pull me back into the room. He was afraid of being too rough with me. He was going to have to try a little harder than that.

I jumped. Varian stifled a gasp. Over my clumsy descent, which hurt just about as much as I had expected, I distinctly heard him cry, "Mister Rider! Your hip!"

"Hardly felt it!" I wanted to slice myself open and rip it out. "Those pills work wonders!"

I whistled for Maximus. It was the first time in my life I had ever heard a horse sound _exasperated,_ but he did come. I heard a gasp and a grunt and I knew Varian had hit the ground. He picked himself up quickly and raced to my side, "You shouldn't be out!"

He had been so obliging and helpful before, I tried my luck again, "Help me on the horse?"

"Absolutely not!" Maybe the kid was not so dumb after all, "If those men realize I accidentally let you out, they'll _kill_ me!"

Despite his impending doom, the kid still yipped with sympathetic pain as I climbed into the saddle and spurred Maximus forward, "Varian, kid, they're softies! You're fine! Go home!"

The kid did not go home. He grabbed my sleeve, rougher this time. He was so short he had to jump to reach me, and he nearly pulled me down. "I was specifically instructed _not_ to let you leave, no matter what you said!"

"Come on, if you leave now, you'll be home before dark."

But Varian would not be home before dark, "Mister Rider…!"


	7. Unsteady Ground

The quiet one was missing an ear.

The wound was fresh—he must have lost it just yesterday.

Everything ached, and I was freezing. The shivering only made the pain worse. I had been torn between sadness and anger—never sleep—all night. I was starving. And yet the first thing I noticed when I opened my eyes in good light was that  _ someone else  _ was missing an ear. I was too sweet for my own good. I tried to work myself into a comfortable position, but with my hands still bound behind me, and the chain wrapped around the loud one's arm (and under him, for good measure) there was not much slack left over for me. I did not want to wake him. 

I craned my neck to look at him, and I felt my hair snag on something. I looked, it was only Pascal, nesting a few feet away. When I moved, he jolted awake, turning the same pale yellow as my hair to hide himself. When he saw it was just me, he calmed, turned back to green, and settled in again.

I half-hoped Mother had taken the chance to kill the men in their sleep, or that one of the brothers had gotten up and killed Mother. My hopes were dashed. They were all breathing. I strained to look at the mountains in good light. We were on a ledge of rock above the timberline, Mother and the loud one had argued for hours about whether this was a good idea or not. She thought we would see anyone coming; he had thought it made us visible, regardless of the fact  _ no one could see anything  _ because it was pitch black _. _ He was probably just irritated because there was not much to eat, and it was too dark to hunt.

But if he and Mother were going to be at each other’s throats, fine. One of them, eventually, would sink their teeth in. I would just have to deal with the one left standing. Hopefully, it would be Mother. The quiet one, the one missing his eye, his ear, maybe his tongue, almost seemed reasonable.  _ Almost _ . If Mother killed his brother, he would want to kill  _ her _ , right? Then there would be just one left. Him. I could probably handle him.

Mother was too smart to try. Withholding the incantation would only protect her so much, and she knew that, same as me, same as the brothers. She must have learned the incantation from somewhere, and the brothers were probably thinking of where  _ they _ could go to learn it—they were probably wondering if they could manage to get it out of me, instead.

The answer was no, of course. Never in a million years. I intended to make that clear only  _ after _ Mother died, preferably in agony.

I settled back down in the dirt between the brothers. They had forced me to sleep between them, with the loud one holding onto the chain, so that Mother could not steal me away in the night. Mother had tried to argue that it would be easier for  _ them _ to abandon her in the darkness and take me away. The loud one had just shrugged and said that was the entire point—she had the incantation, they had me. It was balanced and fair.

I frowned. It was  _ too _ fair. I wanted things unbalanced. I wanted things to be uneasy. I wanted tension so thick it had to be hacked at with an ax. I wanted Mother to sleep with one eye open and I wanted the brothers to look for any chance they could get to shake her, stab her in the back, throw her off a cliff… Nothing was out of the question. I was not going to be escaping, not as long as all three were pulling at my reins. 

I blinked. My eyes had been closed most of the night, but I had never slept. They were sore, like the stub where my tongue used to be, my nose, my throat, and my stomach where the quiet brother’s shoulder had dug into me. If I held my head up, the world seemed to spin. My shoulders ached. Last night I had not slept, I had not slept the night before, either. Mother and I had walked all night. When had I last eaten…? And the pain…

My judgement must be slipping. No matter how precious a resource I was, if they turned on each other, I would get stuck in the middle. Surely the brothers would start to doubt Mother’s story of my magic hair, and what little power  _ withholding _ the incantation got her would be quickly forgotten? I would be little more than a pretty mouth to feed, useless and replaceable.

I turned to look at the loud brother beside me again.  _ Eugene _ had a difficult time believing the truth and it was right in front of him; what motivation did  _ they _ have to believe Mother? Unless, somehow, they already knew, but how did they? The only person I had shown my magic hair to was Eugene, and if Eugene had told them would they have believed _ him _ ? If they had believed Eugene and traded me for a crown, why would he come racing to my rescue the next day at the  _ tower? _ How would he have known I would be there if he thought I was with  _ them? _ And if Eugene had traded the crown to them why would he have sailed  _ towards _ the kingdom that was going to execute him?

And why had they been so quick to trust Mother?

I had thought about it before. I had gone over every detail, but my mind was too tired to function. I could not make the pieces line up. I was exhausted. Looking at the quiet one’s missing ear did not help me think, neither did the uncomfortable angle my head was at, or the feeling of my shoulder. I turned on my back to  _ try _ and get more comfortable, so maybe, I could think, but the shackles on my wrists dug into my back no matter how hard I tried to move them.

My squirming woke up the loud one. I heard him breathe deeply before his eyes opened and he grimaced a little. If it had been almost anyone else, I would have felt bad. I knew first hand that trying to sleep laying on a chain was uncomfortable; but he made his choice. 

“Didn’t sleep a wink, did you?”

I did not answer. I kept staring at the pale sky as he sat up and rolled his shoulders. Then he reached over me and gave his brother a tap. He woke without a sound. They looked to Mother, then to each other, then to me, still laying on the ground between them. Were they thinking of grabbing me and going? Wondering if I would scream? Not in a million years. I started to nod, to tell them they could grab me and run. I would go quietly.

They did not have much time to think about it, or even see me nod, because we heard Mother moving. Maybe she had not slept, too, either because she was expecting them to run off with me, or she was waiting for us all to sleep so she could sing the incarnation. She was in desperate need of it now. I had never seen her look so old—Mother had never let me see her so old—with streaks of silver in her hair and spots on her hands. It was like the stress of the journey, sleeping with one eye open, perhaps the cold light of morning, had aged her more quickly.

“Well, if you’re up and about, let’s get moving.”

“Let a man wake up properly—we haven’t eaten. None of us have.”

I heard Mother huff as the quiet brother pulled me up, so that I was sitting. I cringed. He did not mean to, but it hurt my shoulder. He was so distracted with me, he missed the apple Mother threw at him. His brother caught it.

“Not the kid?”

“What?” Mother tilted her head and looked at me like my answer mattered, holding the last apple away, her wrist curled like she was hiding it, or it was inconsequential—but everyone knew it was the last one, “Are you walking today, sweetie?”

I had never been allowed to go without food. I was too precious for that—to  _ pampered,  _ to  _ sheltered— _ not even as a punishment, she always threatened, but always relented, too, framing it in a way that made herself look merciful, doting, and understanding, though there was very little else she could have done to punish me. I spent my life in a tower: being confined to my room did not matter that much. She took away my books, usually, but by the time when I was ten I knew them well enough to re-tell them to myself—and even make up a song about rock formations and the missing pages in my geology book. She could spank me, but when your hair heals everything, what was a sore bottom? She could lock away my paints, but there was only so much room in her little wardrobe and I had so many other hobbies.

And she  _ did _ lock  _ me _ in the wardrobe, once.

I had made up a little song about how secure it was—about how I had tried and tried to get my books and my paints and my yarn and my fabric and my needles and now I was there, instead, and I could never get myself out—but even in the most secure place in the world, I couldn’t find the missing pages in my geology book.

Maybe Mother had always found some reason to  _ not _ take away my dinner because she was worried, like all her other punishments, I would realize they were not so bad, and there would be nothing stopping me from being a difficult child anymore.

If I had my tongue, I suppose I would sing now, just to irritate her.

I suppose that made me a difficult child.

“Well, sweetie?” Mother’s voice was like honey,  _ dried _ honey, sticking to my fingers and clumping in my hair “Are you walking?”

I would remain a difficult child.

I turned my nose—what was left of it—up at her offer. Mother hummed dismissively, like she always did, and took a big, greedy bite in front of me, her eyes locked with me. It did not matter to me. 

The loud brother cut her down to size, “Ok. Great. You want us to wait while you gloat?”

Mother did not like that. She narrowed her eyes at him, but he just ignored her, and helped his brother hoist me to my feet. I hissed through my teeth as the pain branced across my shoulders. He grabbed my chin and turned my face up. I nearly screamed, but it was not rough. The quiet one kept his hand on my arm, holding me still as his brother titled my head. The muscles in my neck burned. I squeaked.

“Alright, kid, let’s get your arms right way around.”

“What?  _ No. _ ” Mother balked.

“I seem to recall you saying we could do what we like? If she’s going to have to heal the old fashioned way, I’d like her collarbone in the right place.”

Mother  _ hated _ that. It reminded her that she had no power now. What was she going to do? Stop them? Force my hands back? She stared at us, wide-eyed, as the two helped me slip my feet through the loop made by my bound hands. She had them along to be  _ cruel _ to me, not kind. I was sure there was a bad reason they were being  _ nice.  _ Mother had only bad reasons for being nice. Unlike Eugene, they were not going to have a change of heart.

Or… were they?

Sad as it was, Eugene had taught me more than just freedom. He had not meant to, he had not even done it on purpose, and it was not even all  _ him _ . My big eyes and bright smiles had only ever seemed to irritate Mother, but Eugene, the Pub Thugs—when I had smiled at  _ them _ their eyes lit up, and their faces cracked like they were trying to hide it. I did not know everything, but I had a pretty good idea why.

I had no reason to think the brothers were any different.

Perhaps Mother had me in chains. Perhaps she had uprooted me and cut pieces away, but I was not going to wilt. When a tree falls, its branches can simply...grow another way. I would be no different. I could have them on strings, wrapped around my little finger.

Mother was on thin ice, I could see it in her eyes as her chewing slowed and she swallowed. Her next bite was not so smug. She could either take the incantation to her grave as she died of old age, or she could sing the incantation and hope she was in the brother’s good graces—or she could try to grab me and out run them while I was fighting every step of the way. They were not Eugene, and I hated to be at their mercy, but to know that Mother was even more helpless against them and more worthless to them than me filled me with a bitter satisfaction. I would run to them out of spite.

If they wanted to learn the incantation, the brothers would have to smile and play nice, too. To Mother, and to me. Both of us knew it. I suppose the quickest way to get rid of Mother would be to write down the words and hum the melody for them. She had taught me to read and write: how careless of her.

I hissed through my teeth as my shoulders settled into something that was, maybe, right. They still ached. Mother’s stare had become thorny, her chewing sullen, like she had just realized there was a worm in her apple. A sudden noise from my right distracted me. I looked to see the quiet one offering me one half of his apple. The larger half. I heard Mother stammer, “Now,  _ wait _ …”

“I’m sorry?” the loud one chuckled, “are we allowed to do what we want with her, or not?”

“But… You...”

“He’s got a name.” The man was not  _ good _ at playing nice. Of course, he and his brother had been nameless yesterday, and all night. I could not ask, and Mother had never bothered—he had a good reason to be cross, “If you aren’t a cunt, he’ll respond to it.”

She flinched; it would take a lot of knocks to remind of what rung she now occupied on our new social ladder. She was not used to being so low. “Oh…”

“Wilhelm. His name is Wilhelm. Start using it.”

“Wilhelm, I forbid you to...”

But Wilhelm passed his judgement on her, and he did not respond. He offered half of the apple to me again in earnest. Mother fumed. Their being kind was not her intention and we all knew it; but I would take what I could. I was hungry. To be honest, I was more thirsty than hungry, and I was hungry for more than half an apple, but it was all we had. I just did not want to do what she wanted. If she wanted me to walk, I would force her to drag me. If she wanted me to eat, I would sooner starve. I wanted her to know that. I did not like any of them, but for now, I hated Wilhelm less than I hated his brother, and I hated his brother a little less than I hated Mother. 

It was strange, uncomfortable, even, to smell and chew the apple without tasting it. It took the joy out of food. It felt like I was not eating at all, just chomping down on some illusion. Swallowing was difficult. I did not feel full—but even if I was feeling peachy, half of an apple would have left me wanting. The loud one—the one that could talk, he was not so loud this morning, assured me, “You’ll get used to it.”

I would have asked how he knew, but that was not in the cards. Instead Wilhelm swallowed, gave my elbow the gentlest of nudges for my attention, and pointed to his open mouth and the long-healed stub of his own tongue. I nearly choked.

“They’re fond of that, in Koto, when prisoners don’t squeal.”

That was horrible.

Unsatisfied as I was—as we all were—Mother wanted us to move. She pulled on my chain with a curt, “She ate—she walks,” and the brothers followed. It was not out of concern for me, I told myself as I dragged my feet and pulled against the chain, only my hair. I could feel an extra weight dragging the locks behind my left ear. Pascal hitched a ride. I did not mind; I had heard him snapping at bugs half the night, sleeping the rest, but he was too small to keep up on his own.

The world outside the woods, outside of the city, was not as pretty. The mountains were rough, nothing but bare stones and sharp edges. There were no trees for shade, no grass to cool the ground when the midday sun came, and the air was so thin my ears throbbed. The first thing other than the high mountains we saw that day was a crumbling, carved with Corona’s crest—the royal crest. The sun was split in two, half on the wall still standing, half breaking down on the ground. Mother looked at it and sighed, like she was relieved, and her eyes traced to me, cold and smug, and certain she had taken me beyond my parent’s reach. 

Then came a slow, steep descent. Pascal had to come close again, to keep himself from crashing against the rock as my hair fell mindlessly behind me. I was barely able to manage a grunt to greet him. I had used up what little energy the apple had given me fighting back, and I was spent. Yesterday had been warm, the day of the festival had been blisteringly hot, but I had hardly noticed. Today was hot again. My hunger, the heat, my thirst… I had not  _ slept _ . I walked in a daze until I felt a sharp pain shoot up my leg and the world pitched around me, only stopping when my head hit the ground.

Pascal… Pascal was alright, clinging to my neck, his little heart was probably pounding, but he was alright. I barely heard mother scoff over the sounds of the brothers’ boots against the stone, but I felt my arms being pulled by the chain. I tried to grunt something in protest. It was just a blur, a shadow in my vision, but an arm shot out and grabbed hold of it, yanking the chain back with sudden force. I heard mother yelp and the brother order, “You lay a finger on that chain again and I’ll dislocate  _ your _ shoulders.”

“You…”

“Jacob.”

“ _ Jacob. _ ” Mother said it like an insult, “We do not have time…”

“What?” Jacob demanded, “Who would know to follow us? Huh? Rider’s dead.”

I tried to blink the haze away. I saw Jacob pass the chain to his brother. I felt him hook his arms awkwardly under me and peel me from the rocks and carry me to the closest thing to shade he could find. The chain rattled to the ground next to me. I was free to run, if only I could, but my head would not stop spinning.

“Wil, stay here.”

Wilhelm sat down next to me. My head and my vision started to clear. I needed rest, water, and food, and then I would be alright. I tipped my head back against the rock. It was warm, like the oven long after I had scraped the coals out and baked, but not hot, not like it was standing in the open. I looked past Jacob’s shoulder to Mother. She was far ahead. I could hear her scowling as she gathered up her skirt to march back to us. When she got close enough to open her mouth, I could see it, too. 

“ _ You _ are free to leave.” Jacob told her as he got to his feet, “Be my guest.”

“You cannot order me around.”

Except Jacob pulled out a knife, and Mother realized yes; he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I… I don’t know if Jacob and Wil are planning for a sudden and inevitable betrayal or if they've genuinely taken pity on Rapunzel yet.  
> But uh, I don’t think I…? Yeah, I don’t trust ‘em.


End file.
